


In Every Beat

by incorrectbatfam



Category: DCU (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Disney Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spirits, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Día de los Muertos | Day of the Dead, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Coco (2017), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: Jaime has it easy when it comes to leaving the spirit world; he’s got an entire network with generations of deceased family members who can grant him a blessing at the drop of a hat.Bart? …Not so much.
Relationships: Bart Allen & Wally West, Bart Allen/Jaime Reyes, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ted Kord & Jaime Reyes
Comments: 46
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU based on the Disney movie "Coco"

The wheels of the shopping cart clack against the cracked tile as Jaime scans the aisles for the imported wine. The shelves and coolers, enhanced by the harsh white lights, are devoid of the product. He’s not surprised. It’s _Día de Los Muertos_ and as far as he knows, everyone’s dead relatives have an affinity for alcohol.

Jaime supposes this is what he gets for shopping for all the _ofrenda_ offerings at the last minute. Every year, his parents and Milagro remind him to do it ahead of time, and every year he gets too caught up in something to remember. It was a mission in Khandaq last year; the year before, back-to-back work meetings.

But this year, he’s caught up in love—head over heels for a twenty-seven-year-old speedster with a sweeping chestnut ponytail and a black hole stomach and a galaxy brain full of idiotic, impulsive ideas. Jaime can’t recall the last time Bartholomew Henry Allen II wasn’t on his mind. He’s on Jaime’s mind when they’re on different missions, thousands of miles from each other. He’s on Jaime’s mind during the seemingly endless nine-to-five workdays; he’s on Jaime’s mind as they make meals together and when they meet up with friends at nightclubs and when they (mainly Jaime) wake up hungover the next morning as their bodies tangle together in the sheets. It’s like having his favorite song repeating in his head without ever it getting old. Sometimes, Jaime can’t help but hum or sing aloud, wanting the rest of the world to hear the beautiful melody. 

Even though they’ve been together since college, this year Jaime has been seriously taking their relationship under consideration. He figures it’s only a matter of time until they take the next step. The thought makes his heart beat faster with anticipation and he’s waiting for the perfect moment to ask. 

In a way, Jaime has known from the beginning that this is the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. For him, it’s not a question of if, but when. 

Bart doesn’t seem interested in any of that. At least, not as interested as he is in the family-sized bag of Chicken Whizees on the middle shelf. 

Sitting in the shopping cart, Bart points to it like a child. 

“Baaabe, we need more Chicken Whizees. Like, ASAP,” he says.

In Jaime’s head, the scarab says, **“The Bart Allen is incorrect. We replenished our supply yesterday. It should suffice for another forty-eight hours.”**

Jaime ignores the scarab and empties the entire shelf into the cart with a sweep of his arm. Bart cheers and a few late-night shoppers pause to stare.

“ _Hijole, amor_. Could you be any louder?” Jaime asks.

A Cheshire Cat grin breaks out on Bart’s face.

“No,” Jaime warns. “Don’t.”

Bart cups his hands around his mouth and proceeds to bellow like Tarzan.

A tired-looking employee approaches them and says to Bart, “Sir, you’re gonna have to leave if you keep doing that.”

Bart replies, still smiling, “I’m done, I’m done, I promise.”

The employee doesn’t seem to believe him, but leaves the two alone. Meanwhile, Jaime is leaning against the shopping cart handles, clutching his side in an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

“Bart!” he exclaims. “That’s the second time this month!”

Bart opens one of the pouches of Chicken Whizees. 

“And you love it,” he says, popping a handful into his mouth. “Your life would be so boring without me.”

Jaime rolls his eyes and leans forward to plant a kiss on Bart’s lips.

“You’re not wrong, _cariño_.”

Bart gestures to the shopping list in Jaime’s hand. “What else do we need to get?”

“Just a bottle of wine for mi abuela,” he replies. “She had an oddly specific favorite. If we find a dulce de leche cake along the way that’d be great. She loved those too.”

“Think she can spare a piece for Wally?” Bart asks, brushing the crumbs off his ‘90s-print shirt. “It was his favorite too.”

“Everything was Wally’s favorite,” Jaime says.

Bart lets out a sound between a chuckle and a sigh. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Jaime takes Bart’s hand. “You’ll get to be with him tonight. That’s the whole point of _Día de Los Muertos_.”

Bart points to the bakery section. “Found the cake.”

“That’s nice,” Jaime says, “but we still gotta find that wine. I swear, _mi abuela_ is the most high-maintenance dead person I know.”

Bart climbs out of the cart, stretching his long limbs, and throws an arm around Jaime. 

“Do we have time to get food?” Bart asks. “I saw a place down the road.”

Jaime checks his watch; it’s a quarter past seven.

“If you can find the last item,” he replies.

Bart zips off and returns with a dark red bottle before Jaime can blink. 

Jaime puts his hands on his hips. “And where were your powers the last forty-five minutes?”

Bart sets the bottle down in the cart with a resounding _clink_. 

“Can we get something to eat now? I. Am. Starving.”

The line for check out is as long the ones at the amusement park. Bart complains every other minute as they wait, and Jaime smiles a little as he watches, even if the other customers are glaring daggers at the pair. There’s something about the way Bart gestures wildly while ranting that has Jaime following every move as if it’s a movie scene—a mystery where he needs to look for all the clues and piece them together. Normally, Jaime would pull Bart in and shut him up with a kiss, but alas, they’re not in the privacy of their home.

“Jaime. Babe.”

A hand in front of his face startles him back to reality.

“Huh?” he asks.

Bart points to the cashier waiting for them.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Jaime says, face reddening as he pushes the cart forward.

As the cashier scans the items, Jaime’s hand makes its way to Bart’s. 

“That will be $52.99,” says the cashier.

“I got this,” says Jaime.

He pulls out his wallet and fumbles around for the credit card with his one free hand.

“How about you let go of my hand?” Bart asks.

“No,” Jaime insists. “I got this.”

He juggles the wallet in one hand for another thirty seconds before Bart takes it and hands the card to the employee.

Laughing, Jaime says, “I tried, _cariño_.”

Arms full of grocery bags, they make their way down the street towards a mid-tier restaurant. As they walk, Jaime alternates between making sure Bart doesn’t trip on the uneven pavement and taking in the sights. The street lamps flicker on as people mill about—some making their way home, others to bars and parties. Jaime almost trips over two kids who seem to be having a running race in front of an apartment building. 

Bart points to a green building down the block. “It’s after this stoplight.”

As they walk past a jewelry store, Jaime can’t resist the urge to peer through the grates in front of the display window. Sterling silver rings with white diamonds glitter on their pedestals. A large sign advertises them as the trendiest for the wedding season. Jaime shakes his head and runs to catch up to Bart before the latter can get too far ahead.

“ _Ese_ , slow down,” Jaime says. “Not everyone has super speed.”

“Pfft, I was power walking at most,” Bart replies, letting his hair down from the ponytail.

“Your power walk is a normal person’s sprint.”

“I wasn’t even using my super speed,” Bart says. “Guess I’m just naturally like that. It’ll come in handy one day, I bet.”

Jaime chuckles as he props the restaurant door open with his foot.

“Aw, you’re such a gentleman,” Bart teases.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the only person in the world I hold doors for.”

They set the bags on the ground as they slide into a couple of empty barstools. The bartender hands them the menus before turning to help someone else. Bart slides the menu away.

“I already know what I’m gonna get,” he says. “One–”

“–of everything,” Jaime finishes. 

Bart smiles. “You know me so well.”

“I’d hope so,” the older man says. “We’ve only been dating for nine and a half years.”

“Most people would’ve gotten married by now,” Bart says. “Good thing we’re not most people, eh? Marriage is overrated anyway.”

Jaime quickly turns back to his menu. “Check it out, they have milkshakes.”

“Ooh, lemme see!”

Bart moves forward to look at Jaime’s menu, almost knocking over both barstools in the process.

“ _Ese_ , you have your own,” says Jaime. 

“Uh, about that…”

Bart points over the bar, where a laminated booklet now floats like a raft in a sea of dirty dishwater. 

Jaime hands over the menu. “I swear, if you get us kicked out of another restaurant…”

Bart sticks his tongue out.

Jaime asks, “What are you, eleven?”

“Yeah, on a scale from one to ten.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Does this mean you have a crush on me? Man, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Nine and a half years.”

The bartender swings by to take their order. Bart flashes them his ID before rattling off all the menu items.

He slides a beer bottle to Jaime. “I’m surprised your mom hasn’t called about setting up the ofrenda yet. She got off from her shift, what, three hours ago?”

Jaime sips his drink. “Maybe she’s finally trusting me for once.”

There’s a second of silence before they burst out laughing.

“Good one, babe,” Bart says, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Yeah, I know. Your Spanish still sucks, by the way,” Jaime says, “but A-plus for trying.”

Bart leans forward and places a peck on Jaime’s lips. 

“Honestly, though,” Bart says, “I think this whole Day of the Dead thing is so crash. This is gonna sound dumb, but I’m still not over Wally. At least with this, there’s a day where it feels like we’re together.”

In the restaurant’s dim lighting, Jaime almost misses the glisten in Bart’s emerald eyes. Sometimes Jaime wonders what goes on in the speedster’s head, but not for this. He knows the distant look all too well.

He runs his thumb over Bart’s knuckles before bringing them up to his lips. And when Bart smiles, so does Jaime.

“How do you always beat me to this romantic stuff?” Bart asks. “I’m the fastest man alive.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of love, _mi amor_.”

Bart snickers. “What is this, a Disney movie?”

Jaime tucks a loose strand of hair behind Bart’s ear. “If it was, you’d be Rapunzel with that mane of yours.”

They joke around the rest of the time while eating. As they share a dessert, Jaime does the thing he always does where he wipes a crumb from the corner of Bart’s lips before kissing him. It never fails to get the latter blushing like a schoolkid.

Bart falls asleep on Jaime’s shoulder on the subway ride home. Jaime is used to it—every time they eat out, Bart gorges himself and falls into a food coma straight after. Jaime combs his fingers through Bart’s hair before burying his nose in it, taking in the sweet scent of strawberry shampoo. 

The cars are mostly empty. A rough-looking teenager is playing with what looks like a segment of a pipe. Across from the teen is a middle-aged man in a blue tuxedo, talking in obscure business lingo on the phone. Holding onto the handrails listening to music is a ginger-haired college guy.

When Jaime looks up again, the train is screeching to a stop at the next platform. It’s not theirs; theirs is at the end of the line. Only one person boards: an old Hispanic woman. 

Jaime does a double-take. For a moment, he sees his late grandmother’s white hair, her knitted shawl, and her oversized handbag. 

He blinks and that image is gone. 

She stares straight at him, and he wonders why. Then Bart snores and Jaime remembers. He looks from his boyfriend to the lady’s judgmental gaze and pulls Bart closer, because Jaime is too polite to outright say anything. He half-expects her to drop a rude comment, but nothing comes.

One by one, the other occupants go their own way, until it’s only Jaime, Bart, and the woman riding to the last stop. 

Jaime nudges Bart. “Wake up, _mi amor_. We’re almost home.”

“Hm?” Bart opens a bleary eye and yawns.

The train pulls up to the station and over the speakers, the conductor announces that it’s the last stop. Jaime spares one last glance at the lady as he takes Bart’s hand and steps into the cool evening.

Back in their apartment, Jaime says, “I’ll start preparing the offerings. You set up the altar and the marigold path. Try not to set the curtains on fire again.”

Bart smiles. “No promises, babe.”

The scarab chimes in, **“There is a forty-three percent chance that the Bart Allen will ignite the furniture.”**

“Not helpful, Khaji Da,” Jaime says as he unpacks the groceries in the kitchen. 

**“I am merely stating the facts.”**

“I swear, the only way I can get you to shut up is to join the Land of the Dead.”

**“Affirmative.”**

Jaime rolls his eyes as he reads the recipes his mother sent. As he mixes the churro batter, his head automatically turns to where Bart is setting up the ofrenda in the living room. It never ceases to astound Jaime, how one altar is stacked halfway to the ceiling with pictures of his ancestors while the other has a single photo of a yellow-suited speedster. 

Jaime insists on putting Wally West’s photo with the rest of the Reyes and Leal members, but Bart declines every time. 

“It’s one per family,” he always says, “and I’m not part of yours.”

Jaime wants to call his bluff. He wants to tell Bart each and every way the speedster belongs. He wants to ask Bart to join the endless network of relatives. But he can’t find a good enough ring and he wants to wait for the right time and everything needs to be _perfecto_. It’s what Bart deserves.

Once Jaime finishes the assortment of pastries and savory Mexican dishes, he brings them out on one arm like a waiter and begins arranging them on the ofrenda.

Marigold petals are scattered around the living room and down the hall to the front door. The coffee table is filled with framed pictures and white candles, with just enough space for the many plates and cups Jaime has. One of the staples holding the _papel picado_ falls off, so he moves the water pitcher to act as a paperweight.

It’s a decent setup—not too fancy because of expenses and not too big because they live in an apartment. They can’t afford lavish decorations or fancy sugar skulls, but as far as _ofrendas_ go, theirs isn’t half bad.

He pours a glass of red wine and sets it next to the only color photo on his side—his grandmother, Elena Leal, who passed away when Jaime was in university. He doesn’t grieve the way he did a decade ago, but there’s still a tender spot where she once was, as opposed to the older ancestors Jaime has never met. It seems like only yesterday Jaime was taking her for a joyride across the El Paso desert in the Blue Beetle costume.

Bart, in a solemn silence, rips open a bag of Chicken Whizees. He pours half of it into a bowl and sets it next to the photo. The rest of the bag, he tucks into his jacket for later as he stares off into space. Jaime cuts the store-bought cake and sets a piece on Wally’s side before placing a hand on Bart’s shoulder.

“You okay, _cariño_?”

Bart’s smile is strained when he answers, “Yeah. I’m crash.”

Jaime sits down and puts a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “It’s okay to still miss him,”

“It’s been fourteen years,” Bart states. “Dick and Artemis moved on. Why can I?”

Each year, Bart asks the same question. And each year, Jaime never knows the right way to answer.

Bart draws a knee up to his chest. Jaime scoots closer and wraps his arms around Bart.

“You guys are _familia_. It’s okay to not be over it.” He glances at the decade-old photo of Elena. “I don’t think it’s possible. That’s what comes with loving someone.”

“Barry said to slow down. I should’ve slowed down and siphoned the energy away from Wally. It’s my fault.”

“Wally wouldn’t blame you, and neither does anyone else, _cariño_.”

“And how would you know that?” Bart asks. “For all we know, Wally does blame me. And he’d be right to.”

Jaime goes silent as he squeezes Bart a little tighter. A tear falls from the corner of Bart’s eye as he returns the hug.

Pulling apart, Jaime grabs the matches and begins to light the numerous candles. Bart gets up and opens the window to the fire escape, mumbling something along the lines of “could use some fresh air”.

“Jaime?”

“ _¿Sí?_ ”

Bart is sitting half on the windowsill, half on the metal grates of the fire escape. There’s a gentle breeze. The cool November air ruffles his hair and his red windbreaker equally so.

“You ever wonder what happens when we die?” he asks. “Not, like, the physical stuff. I mean, is there anything else?”

Jaime shrugs. “ _No sé_. It’s anyone’s guess.”

He traces his finger over one of the bright colored paper skeleton decorations. 

“According to Mexican tradition,” he says, “everything is cyclical. Death is just an extension of life. These _calacas_ —skeletons—are supposed to be a symbol of joy, not mourning or fear. That’s why they’re all colorful like this. The spirit world is supposed to be a happy place.”

Bart gives a soft smile. “You have the weirdest ways of making me feel better. By the way, when my time comes, I want extra Chicken Whizees on my _ofrenda_.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m letting you die.”

The wind picks up; the breeze turns into a gust which turns into a gale in a matter of seconds. 

Bart scrambles to shut the window, but the air is so strong it keeps pulling it out of his grip. It snuffs out the candles and rocks the _ofrenda_ like an earthquake. 

The photos inch towards the edge of the table; Wally’s frame teeters, threatening to fall to the wooden floor.

Jaime lunges forward and grabs one side of the window while Bart gets the other. Together, they slam it shut so hard it shakes the rest of the apartment. 

Almost as if in slow motion, Wally’s photo tips over. The frame shatters on impact.

A strangled cry slips from Bart’s throat as he dives forward. Brushing off the tiny glass fragments, he takes the photo of the other speedster in his fingers with a gingerness Jaime has never seen in him. 

“Wecanfixthis,” Bart says. “We just need a new frame. I think there’s an extra somewhere. Jaimehelpmefindit…”

As Bart speaks, his words fall on deaf ears; Jaime is too busy fixating on the rest of the room. More specifically, he focuses on the orange marigold petals swirling around the couple like a cyclone despite the windows being closed. 

“Bart,” Jaime whispers.

Bart keeps rambling. “Ithinkthere’soneinthebedroom. Babe, can you check?”

The petals settle down in a perfect circle around them—far too freaky to be chance. Jaime stares on in awe as they glow for a short moment before dimming once again.

“Bart,” Jaime repeats, this time louder. 

“What?” Bart snaps. “Can’t you see I’m trying to fix our altar here?”

Jaime is too engrossed in the petals to be hurt by the hostility.

He gestures to the marigolds, asking, “You saw that, didn’t you?”

“Saw what?” Bart furrows his eyebrows.

Jaime gestures again, harder. “Those. _Las caléndulas_. They were, like, glowing and stuff.”

“I think you had too much to drink,” Bart says. “I didn’t see anything.”

“That’s not how alcohol works, Bart. And I had one beer more than two hours ago.”

Some movement on the street below caught Jaime’s attention. He turns his head, expecting to see something mundane like a person getting a speeding ticket. 

What he sees instead rattles him to the bone. Tens—perhaps hundreds—of calacas wander the streets and enter the homes that have ofrendas. 

Jaime leaps back and yanks the curtains shut.

“Blue?” Bart takes Jaime’s arm. “What’s wrong? What’d you see…”

Bart pauses.

“Maybe we both had too much to drink?” he suggests.

Jaime knows that Bart knows that that’s far from what is happening. Bart tucks the photo in his shirt pocket and approaches the window, peeking through the curtains again, just a little.

“Tell me you’re seeing the same thing,” Jaime says. “Skeletons and… dead people?”

Bart nods and closes the curtains.

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this,” Bart says. “You have Zatanna’s number, right?”

“ _Sí_. Right,” Jaime says, reaching for the cell phone on the couch. “Lemme get–”

He yelps when his hand goes through not only the phone, but the cushions and sofa frame too.

“I just phased through the couch,” Jaime says, not believing what he’s seeing. “ _Díos mio_ , my hand, it just–”

“Babe, calm down,” Bart responds. “It’s perfectly normal to accidentally phase through stuff.”

“Yeah, for you!”

“Okay, let’s backtrack and think for a sec, alright?” Bart paces around the room; it’s easy to ignore how he walks through the table and TV because he does it all the time. “You said you saw something weird with the flowers.”

“They were swirling around and glowing even after the windows closed.” Jaime moves to sit in an armchair, only for his whole body to drop through with an unceremonious thud; he rubs his tailbone as he stands back up. “Right, phasing weirdness. How did I already forget about that?”

“You gotta concentrate on turning solid,” Bart says. “Like this.”

He reaches for the water pitcher, but his hand phases past the handle. Jaime crosses his arms, unamused.

Bart chuckles apprehensively. “Lemme try again.”

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the item. Again, his fingers go right through. 

He turns to Jaime. “We might have a problem.”

“Ya think?”

Bart draws his hand back and glances back out at the numerous animated skeletons outside. 

“Jaime… are we dead?”

Jaime waves his hand through a lamp.

“I’m not sure,” he replies, inspecting his fingers. “It seems like we’re ghosts, but at the same time…”

He looks to the window.

“Oh man, we better not be,” Bart says. “I still got a leftover pizza in the fridge.”

Jaime steps through the window onto the fire escape and Bart follows. 

They watch carefully as the calacas, all with a golden glow around their edges, make their way around town. Across the alleyway, Jaime sees another Hispanic household with an ofrenda set up. A baby is playing in the family room, and to the side two elderly skeletons coo over “how much she’s grown”. On the street corner, three teenagers dance while a fourth plays Elvis Presley on a ‘50s-style radio. Right under the fire escape, a flapper woman walking a dog is asking a Viking shieldmaiden for dating advice. 

“ _La Tierra de Los Muertos_ ,” Jaime whispers. “The Land of the Dead.”

The longer he looks, the less afraid Jaime feels. They may be bones, but these are still people, going about their afterlife the same way the living go about their existence. 

“Crash,” Bart squeaks. “Since we’re not, uh, completely dead or whatever, you think we can ask them for help?”

Before Jaime can answer, Bart is already halfway down the fire escape, hollering for people’s attention. 

“Hey!” Bart yells. “My boyfriend and I entered the Land of the Dead by mistake. Don’t ask how, I have no idea. But I’m sure we can clear up this misunderstanding with a little help. So if you guys don’t mind…”

Several people stop in their tracks to gawk, bug-eyed. One person’s jaw literally drops to the ground. There’s a moment of stunned silence before screaming erupts and the crowd flees in all directions.

Bart asks, “Was it something I said?”

Jaime hops from the ladder to the sidewalk and offers a hand to help Bart down.

“Not exactly,” Jaime replies.

A glowing marigold path catches their attention. 

Bart looks from it to Jaime. “Well, what do we do now?”

Jaime laces his fingers with Bart’s, thankful that he can still hold the most important thing. 

“I think there’s only one thing we can do, mi amor.”

Bart gives a gentle squeeze. “It’s all crash as long as I’m with you.”

As they make their way down the path, Jaime swipes a couple of colorful _calavera_ masks from a stand, leaving an IOU for the disgruntled vendor. He puts the one with blue feathers on his head and hands one with red roses to Bart.

“What’s with the skull masks?” Bart asks.

“To blend in,” Jaime answers. “I don’t think these folks are used to seeing living people among them.”

“Got it,” Bart says, tying on his mask. “Since you’re more familiar with this stuff, where do we go from here?”

“I’m familiar with it from a cultural standpoint, but not…” he gestures around. 

“Right.” Bart nods. “That’s understandable.”

A comfortable silence falls over them as they walk. There’s a golden glow around Bart—an ethereal, angelic aura. His green eyes fill with wonder as they reflect the strange new world around them. A couple of skeleton children dart in front of them, squirting each other with water guns, and Bart’s laugh is like a melody. 

Once more, Jaime thinks to himself, “ _Soy la persona más afortunado del universo_.”

He’s tempted to kiss Bart right then and there. Their faces automatically move closer and Jaime’s hand traces Bart’s jawline.

“Out of my way!”.

A bell ringing forces them to jump apart, just in time for a man on a bike to zoom by in between.

The bike swerves and he collides head-on into an ofrenda outside of a townhouse. Physically, the altar remains untouched, but a ghostly version of it crashes down. Bread rolls bounce off his skull. Red wine stains his ocean blue suit and a thick, sticky layer of caramel coats his goggles. Both Bart and Jaime rush to help him. 

“Are you okay, sir?” Jaime asks, offering his hand.

He takes Jaime’s hand and pulls himself up.

“I’m fine. Thanks for the hand,” he replies. “You guys mind helping me find my other arm?”

It’s then that Jaime sees that the man is missing a forearm on his left side. Bart’s already digging through the pile, and three seconds later emerges with it like a very bony trophy.

“Found it!” he exclaims.

“Thanks,” the man says, popping it back on. “Sorry about that. When I was alive I could build gadgets that rivaled Batman’s, but now I can’t even get some stupid brakes to work.”

“Wait,” Bart says. “You knew Batman?”

The man wipes the caramel off his goggles. “Not as well as Superman, but yeah.”

“Like, Bruce Wayne?”

“That’s who he is?” the man asks. 

Bart bites his lip. “Oops. Spoilers. Well, not really. Dick Grayson is Batman now. Wait, did that count as another spoiler?”

Jaime’s eyes widen when he observes the familiar bug-shaped logo on the suit.

“You’re Ted Kord,” he says, dumbfounded. “You’re the second Blue Beetle.”

“You guys seem to know a lot about the Justice League. Big fans?”

“Actually, sir,” Jaime says, “we are the Justice League.”

“That’s right,” Bart chimes in, throwing an arm around Jaime. “We’re part of the newest iteration. I’m Bart Allen and this is Jaime Reyes. AKA Flash and Blue Beetle.”

Ted points to Jaime. “You’re Blue Beetle? But... how?”

“Got this thing in the same explosion that killed you,” Jaime says, pointing to his back. “Then I almost took over the world and stuff, long story.”

“Is that how you died?” Ted asks.

“Actually…”

Jaime and Bart remove their skull masks and Ted’s eyes bulge out of his head. They put the masks back on.

Ted sputters. “But– what– you’re alive. How?”

“Your guess is as good as ours, Mr. Kord,” says Jaime. “We’re trying to find a way out. Think you have an idea?”

“Call me Ted,” he says, picking up the bent remnants of his bike. “I think I might know a starting place. It’s just over the bridge and into the spirit world.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bart thinks he’s seen it all as a time-traveling speedster hailing from an apocalyptic future. And yet, the world that lies beyond the marigold arch bridge takes his breath away like nothing else. 

Well, almost nothing. Jaime’s standing right next to him, after all.

For someone who’s always on the move, someone who’s always one step ahead of the curve, Bart trails behind as his eyes are transfixed on his surroundings. The only thing preventing him from being completely swept up in the amazement is Jaime’s hand in his, guiding the way. 

Obsidian buildings tower above like glorious monuments, basking in their own vibrant lights. Mexican spirit animals— _alebrijes_ , Jaime calls them—prance through the air with wings the colors of a _fiesta_. Bart ducks as a terrier swoops above his head, chasing a tabby cat. As they cross the petal bridge, they pass men and women and children from all walks of life. Some are excitedly leaving for the living world. Others are returning with armfuls of offerings while reminiscing about their families. In the distance, a church bell rings. 

Bart wonders if Wally is among the crowd—if the other speedster visits the apartment and stops to say hi or to claim his favorite snack. It’s no secret that Bart misses Wally beyond comprehension, but knowing the afterlife exists has him thinking: does Wally miss him? Because, if Bart was the dead one, he’d miss everyone—his friends, his family, the love of his life. Plus, there are things he loves to do that spirits can’t, like grabbing McDonald’s after saving the planet from the villain of the week.

Lost in thought, Bart almost walks into the scarab on Jaime’s back. He looks around, confused as to why they’ve stopped, until he sees the line stretching in front of them, leading up to what appears to be a ticket booth.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Bart asks.

“Customs,” Ted replies, removing the basket from his bike.

“Customs? Like at an airport?”

“Pretty much,” Ted says. “We have to declare our offerings. It’s part of a process. I’m not totally sure why. Safety reasons, I presume.”

Jaime curses under his breath and starts patting his pockets.

“Bart and I don’t have anything,” he says, panic rising in his voice. “We don’t have _ofrendas_.”

The customs worker calls out.

“Next!”

Jaime snatches a piece of fruit from Ted’s basket as the latter walks up to the counter.

“Any offerings to declare?” the worker asks.

“Yes,” Ted says. “Some food and a Stevie Wonder album from my best friend.”

“Very well, you may go. Next!”

Jaime steps up.

The worker yawns. “Any offerings to declare.”

“An, uh, apple,” Jaime says, placing it on the surface. “From… my… teacher?”

The worker gives him a strange look but waves him through. 

“Next!”

Freaking out on the inside, Bart searches his jacket for something—anything—he can show. Someone shoves him forward and he shoots them a glare.

“Any offerings to declare?”

“Uh…” Bart tries to pull something from his head.

The worker taps their pen and groans. “Come on, man. I don’t have all night.”

A plastic bag rustles under his jacket. Bart plucks it out and sets it down. 

“Chicken Whizees, courtesy of my totally crash boyfriend,” he proclaims, flashing a signature Bart Allen smile.

The worker rolls their eyes. “Go ahead.”

Bart jogs through the gates, popping a few pieces into his mouth. Jaime and Ted are waiting on a bench, discussing Blue Beetle business. Something about the way Jaime naturally talks to the skeleton of a superhero puts Bart a tad more at ease about their predicament.

Jaime looks up at him and smirks. “Nice save.”

“It’s technically true. You paid for these,” Bart says between bites. “And it’s still better than yours. An apple? From your _teacher_?”

“Shut up,” Jaime laughs, tossing the apple to Bart. “You know I’m awkward.”

Bart catches the apple and takes a large bite. “That’s why I do the talking for the both of us.”

“Not with your mouth full, _ese_ ,” Jaime says.

“Why?” Bart challenges. “Do manners exist in the Land of the Dead?”

“Jeez, I sure hope so.”

Bart throws his arms around Jaime and puckers up, mouth still full of food. “You still love me.”

Jaime shoves Bart’s face away, laughing harder. 

Ted pipes in, “If you guys are done, I was just telling Jaime that the customs office is in the train station. If anyone knows how to help you get home, it’s them.”

“Crash!” Bart exclaims. “Let’s go!”

Before he can dart off in the wrong direction, Jaime tugs the hood of Bart’s jacket.

“Right. My bad. Just gotta follow the Beetles.”

They make their way through a bustling train station. Cable cars carrying people land and take off to an open city. Iron staircases wind up and down the walls, with hallways overlooking the platforms on one side and leading to closed office doors on the other. They pass kiosks selling everything from newspapers to wind chimes to clothes straight out of the 1800s. Spirit animals sit on the ledges like gargoyles, periodically coming to life as their masters beckon them. Bart lifts his mask to get a better view as they walk by a mariachi band and Jaime elbows him.

“Stealth mode, _cariño_ ,” he hisses.

As they climb up the stairs, a breeze blows through the open-air station. Jaime, wearing only a t-shirt, shivers.

As Bart drapes his jacket over Jaime’s shoulders, he asks Ted, “How far is it?”

“We’re here,” Ted says. “They created a new branch of the Department of Afterlife Affairs after some living kid ended up here many years back.”

He stops at a door and knocks thrice. A “come in” prompts him to open it.

So far, the office is the most ordinary thing Bart has seen in the spirit world. Binders and manila folders pile to the ceiling on a tiny mahogany desk, next to a boxy computer from the ‘70s. Behind that, a radius window overlooks the rest of the Land of the Dead. A cuckoo clock stands against a wall, chiming out the time—ten o’clock—except the cuckoo bird was a tiny spirit animal. It flies from its wooden perch to a bleached white finger belonging to a woman with short white hair.

The woman glares at Ted with a mix of unamusement, annoyance, and disapproval, as if he’s done something wrong.

“Theodore Stephen Kord.”

“Hey, Ms. Carter,” he greets with a nervous wave. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Too bad that streak has to end,” she says, grabbing a pen from a cup. “What is it this time?”

Ted coughs and clears his throat. “I have something in your area of expertise.”

He looks to Bart and Jaime. The two lift their masks and the woman groans.

“Here we go again,” she says, digging through a drawer. 

She sets a marigold on the desk and motions for them to sit. Jaime grabs chairs for both him and Bart while Ted reaches for his own.

“Not you, Theodore,” she scoffs. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Fair. That’s totally fair.” Ted puts his hands up in surrender and steps to the side. 

Jaime readjusts his mask. “Can you help us get home?” he asks.

“Yes, that should be easy,” she says, typing something into the computer. “All we need to do is track down one of your family members so they can give you a blessing to go home.”

“Really? It’s that easy?” Bart asks. 

She nods and points to Jaime. “Name?”

“Jaime Reyes.”

The room is dead silent for a moment, save for the keyboard clacking. As Bart fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt, he glances at Ted and Jaime. Leaning against a corner, Ted watches them all intensely. Meanwhile, Jaime, ever so patient, waits politely as the woman searches her computer. Bart doesn’t know how Jaime does it. Meanwhile, the speedster gets bored waiting for the lights to turn on.

“It says here you have fifteen relatives who are able to grant you a blessing,” she says, “but none are present in the spirit world at the moment. They all went out. You’ll have to wait until someone gets back.”

A ping echoes from the computer.

“It looks like someone just got back.” She presses a button on a microphone. “Elena Leal, please report to the Department of Afterlife Affairs.”

Jaime’s chocolate brown eyes widen. 

“ _Abuela_.”

Bart takes his hand. “You okay, Blue?”

“I get to see _mi abuela_ again,” Jaime whispers. “ _Díos_ , it’s been so long. I missed her so much.”

Not even a minute later, the door bursts open with a loud _BANG_. An old woman marches up to the desk, fuming. A woven basket laden with offerings—including the wine and cake Jaime bought—hangs from her arm. Her lavender nightgown hangs loosely around her stout skeletal frame and an olive green knitted shawl wraps around her shoulders. She’s wearing pink fuzzy slippers with her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. A gold cross necklace accentuates the look, along with large square glasses on her face. Bart offhandedly wonders if dead people can still have vision problems—or any problems at all. 

She slaps her hand on the table, demanding, “What is the meaning of this? I come back from my _ofrendas_ and I get called here for no reason. I swear to God, these annoying, _estupido_ spirit world offices are going to be the un-death of me. My granddaughter can do your jobs better and I haven’t seen her since she was eight.”

Jaime pushes his chair back and stands up. Elena barely reaches up to his chest as he takes a step closer.

“ _Hola, Abuela,_ ” he breathes. “Long time no see.”

Elena gasps and her eyes glass over.

“Jaime, _mijito_. _Díos mio_.” 

In an instant, she’s all over her grandson, crushing his ribs in a suffocating hug. Though Jaime is over six feet tall, Elena manages to lift him a few inches off the ground.

“ _Mi bebito_ , how did this happen? Was it one of those villains? I told your _madre_ that this superhero business was too dangerous.” She sets him down, allowing him to breathe. “Do she and your _papá_ know? They must be devastated right now. _¿Y tu hermana y amigos?_ You poor thing. This isn’t fair. You had a full life ahead of you!”

“ _Cálmese, Abuela_. I’m not actually dead. I ended up here by mistake. See?” Jaime removes the mask.

“Oh.”

She takes off a slipper and whacks him over the head.

“Never scare me like that again!”

Bart clamps his hand over his mouth, stifling a chortle. He sinks down in his chair as Elena begins scolding Jaime in rapid-fire Spanish, not wanting to get in between whatever that is. Jaime slinks back and hangs his head like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. It’s comical how meek he looks in his grandmother’s presence. It’s something Bart has never seen in all the years of knowing him.

As Elena continues lecturing Jaime, Bart turns back to the desk lady—Ms. Carter, according to Ted—and asks, “So, can you look up any of my folks here?”

She hums and asks, “Name?”

“Bartholomew Allen. Er, the second.”

The woman types something and the computer returns a screen reading, **“ERROR 404: FAMILY NOT FOUND”**.

“That’s funny.” Bart scoots his chair closer. “Can you try again?”

She does the same thing and shakes her head when nothing shows up.

“Maybe he’s out? Like, visiting the altars and stuff?”

The woman pulls out a pair of bifocals and looks back to the screen. 

She says, “The system would say if he’s out. But it seems like you don’t have any existing relatives at all.”

Bart unfolds the photo in his pocket and slides it over.

“His name is Wally West,” he says. “He’s my cousin. Died about fourteen years back.”

She slides the photo back, saying, “I’m sorry, but it says here that you don’t have any direct relatives who are able to grant you a blessing.” She turns to Jaime and Elena, gesturing to the marigold. “You can give your grandson your blessing whenever you want.”

Elena plucks a petal from the flower.

“Jaime,” she says, “I give you my blessing.”

The petal glows a brilliant gold as the words leave her mouth.

“Something’s not right,” Bart announces, taking the photo back. “I think it’s your system. It’s beyond retro. It’s ancient. I’m not surprised it doesn’t work.”

“Bart?” Jaime asks. “ _¿Qué te pasa?_ ”

“They’re saying I can’t get a blessing. How moded is that?”

“But you have Wally.”

“I know!”

“Wait,” Ted asks, “does that mean you’re stuck here? Ms. C, is he stuck here?”

The woman shrugs. 

“I’m new to this,” she admits, “but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.”

“ _¡Espere, espere!_ ” The petal turns back to normal when Elena interjects. “Jaime, who exactly is this?”

Jaime takes a deep breath and interlaces his fingers with Bart’s. 

“ _Abuela_ ,” he says, “this is Bart. _Él es mi novio_.”

The room is dead silent after Jaime says that, and as Elena stares at the couple, Bart suddenly finds the zigzagging carpet pattern to be the most interesting thing in the universe. 

“How long?” she asks.

“Nine and a half years,” Jaime answers, “and best friends for longer.”

Elena’s eyes travel between Jaime and Bart. 

“ _¿Abuela?_ ” Jaime asks. “Is everything okay?”

There’s another moment, like she’s deliberating, before she answers, “No. Everything is not okay. You know what the Bible says about this, right?”

“I know,” he says, “but I love him. And I don’t mean any disrespect, but,” he gestures around them, “the Bible isn’t exactly correct.”

Jaime holds up their linked hands as if to prove a point, and a sharp intake draws Bart’s attention. The speedster almost faints when he sees the bleach white digits where their fingertips should be, the surrounding flesh see-through like a phantom. 

“Jaime.” Bart’s voice wavers. “What’s happening to us?”

Jaime looks to any of the skeleton people for answers.

“It looks like the longer you stay here,” Ted theorizes, “the more you fade away, until you become one of us.”

“How long do we have?” Jaime asks.

Ted looks to the woman at the desk, who answers, “You have until sunrise to get a blessing. After that…”

Elena holds the petal out to Jaime. 

“No time to waste then,” she says. “Jaime, I give you my blessing to go home. And maybe find a nice girl.” She mutters the last part under her breath.

Bart nudges him. “Go on.”

Jaime gapes as if Bart just asked him to kick a puppy. “ _¿Estas loco?_ I’m not leaving you behind, Bart!”

“You heard Ted,” Bart says. “The longer you stay, the more you’ll fade away. At least if you go now, there’s someone who will…” Bart despises at his next words. “Someone who will keep our memory alive if I don’t make it. It’s only logical.” He avoids looking at Jaime’s eyes.

Jaime explodes. “No, it’s not logical! It’s stupid and impulsive and _Díos bueno_ if you think for a moment that I’m gonna leave you behind–”

“Jaime.” Bart gives his boyfriend’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you.”

“ _Y también te amo_ ,” Jaime responds, determination in his eyes, “which is why I’m not going anywhere until we find a way home together. _¿Comprendes?_ ”

Bart sighs. He loves Jaime too much to let him risk his life, but he also knows there is no stopping the older man when he’s set on something. He’s aware arguing will only waste precious time, and according to the clock, they have less than eight hours until dawn.

Bart decides to be grateful that he doesn’t have to do this alone.

He turns to Ted. “Other than here, where else can we go to search for someone?”

“Hm…” Ted scratches his chin. “Maybe your cousin left the spirit world and it just didn’t register in the network. System errors are fairly common. We can check with the security team at the gates.”

“Crash!” Bart exclaims as he opens the door. “Lead the way, OG Bee-tell!”

Ted chuckles as he shows himself out; the woman at the desk gives him one last disapproving head shake. Bart sprints down the stairs, still holding Jaime’s hand, and makes it all the way down by the time Ted reaches the halfway point.

When Bart turns around, Jaime has his hands on his knees, catching his breath. But what surprises Bart more is that Elena is right beside them.

“What are you doing?” Jaime asks, curious yet confused.

“I’m not about to let my grandson wander aimlessly around the spirit world,” she scoffs, putting her hands on her hips. “I will help you. The sooner we find his relative, the sooner you can both go home.”

“Gee, uh, _gracias_?” Jaime says, scratching the back of his head. 

“Just so you know, that doesn’t mean I approve of,” she gestures between Jaime and Bart, “ _this_.”

“Understood, ma’am,” Bart replies, earning him a death glare that makes him want to hide behind one of the platform’s plant decorations.

Ted cuts in, pointing to a cable car as it docks beside them. “This will take us to where we need to get to—the gates go on forever and the security offices are on the other end. If your cousin went through, they’ll have records.”

Bart offers a hand to Jaime. “Your carriage awaits, my good sir.”

“ _Ese_ , maybe tone it down in front of _mi abuela_ ,” Jaime whispers. “Just a tad.”

Bart coughs. “Right.”

The cable car lifts off and the view takes Bart’s breath away once again. They pass over maze-like cobblestone streets lined with mom-and-pop shops that look like something straight out of an animation. Vendors wheel their carts around shouting for buyers, but they’re too far away for Bart to hear. Streetlights twinkle like stars in the dark. The car passes so close to a pointed church steeple that Bart could lean over the rails and touch it—and he would’ve, except Jaime pulls him back at the last second. If they can’t find any record of Wally leaving, then that means he is somewhere down below. The Land of the Dead stretches for eternity. Wally could be anywhere. There’s no way they can comb through it all in a few hours. The thought of not finding his cousin makes Bart’s stomach churn. Or maybe that’s just motion sickness; he’s not sure.

Bart runs his fingers through his hair, regretting not bringing a hair tie. Each time he pushes his copper locks out of his face, the wind pushes them right back. He feels someone tuck a strand behind his ear. He doesn’t even need to look. There is exactly one person in the universe who does that with him.

Nonetheless, one worry continues to plague his mind, like a stubborn itch that won’t go away no matter how hard he scratches.

What if they don’t find Wally?

“We’ll find him, _cariño_.”

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Jaime puts an arm around him and Bart rests his head on Jaime’s shoulder without so much as a second thought as to who might be watching. He shuts his eyes and takes in his lover’s scent—cinnamon, with a dash of musty maple smoke, etched into Bart’s memory from day one. It smells of safety. Of home. Of love. Bart refuses to think that this would be the last whiff he gets. He _has_ to make it.

The cable car docks and Ted is the first to hop off, waving for the rest to follow. 

“Right this way,” he leads.

It’s less than a minute’s walk to a white and blue police booth jutting out of a stone wall like a haphazardly placed LEGO structure. The man running it is asleep. Ted knocks on the glass and startles him awake.

The man asks, “How may I help you?”

Bart steps forward with Wally’s photo. “We need to find someone and we wanna check whether he’s still in the spirit world,” he says, sliding it under the opening. “His full name is Wallace Rudolph West. Goes by Wally or Wall-man or Kid Flash.”

The guard types something into a computer.

“Yeah, nope,” he says. “No record of him leaving.”

Bart turns to face the rest. “That means he’s somewhere around here. Ted, how long ‘til sunrise?”

Ted rolls up his sleeve to check his watch. “Seven hours and thirty minutes.”

“Crash,” he says. “That’s seven hours and twenty-nine minutes more than we need. Perks of being a speedster.”

Ted winces. “Actually…”

Realization dawns on him. “Please don’t tell me…”

“Superpowers don’t work here.” Ted grimaces, gesturing nearby to what appears to be a gaggle of Kryptonians in wailing in distress. 

“Why?” Bart asks as he paces around, rewriting his plans in his head. “Just… why?”

Ted shrugs. “I honestly have no idea. Dead people are all created equal, I guess. I haven’t been dead nearly as long as most people here.”

“Okay, okay. This is all okay,” Bart says. “We just gotta… I dunno, put our heads together or something.”

“Good idea,” Jaime says. He glances over his shoulder. “Khaji, check for a signature.”

Bart waits, assuming that the scarab is giving another one of its trademarked long-winded explanations. He raises an eyebrow when Jaime mumbles something under his breath in Spanish.

“Weird,” Jaime says. “Let me reword that: Khaji Da, scan for Wally West’s biometric signature, _por favor_.”

“Babe,” Bart asks, concerned, “everything okay?”

Jaime curses. “No. The scarab… it’s silent.”

Bart looks to Ted—the resident genius of this operation, and he’s not comforted by the fact that the man looks just as lost as him and Jaime.

“Ted,” Bart says, “does the Land of the Dead also affect alien technology?”

“I don’t know. This has never happened before,” he answers. “Normally I’d run experiments to figure it out but we have nowhere near enough time. So I say we assume the answer is ‘yes’ for the time being.”

Murphy’s Law is truly in action tonight, Bart thinks as he pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling like wanting to cry. The lack of super-speed or Jaime’s scarab puts a dent in ninety-nine percent of his plans. Part of him supposes that it’s his fault for getting too accustomed to using them.

“Bart, _cariño_ ,” says Jaime. “It’ll be okay. So we don’t have superpowers and that makes our job a thousand times more difficult. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Think about it: we’ve succeeded before on worse odds. Remember the Reach invasion?”

Bart gives a soft smile. “You always have the weirdest ways of making me feel better.”

“Alright,” Ted says. “let’s start by narrowing down some places. Bart, what are some things Wally enjoyed?”

“Food,” Bart answers without hesitation. “No one could eat more than him.”

“My wallet begs to differ,” Jaime mutters.

Bart playfully sticks his tongue out at him. “Anyway, Wally also enjoyed science and running. Think that’s something we can work with?”

From his pocket, Ted draws a Kord Industries ballpoint pen with a marigold taped to the end. He rips a flyer off a nearby pillar and circles the two biggest words before handing it to Bart.

Bart squints “Uh, what does… ‘car-er-ah es-ke-let-oh’ mean?”

Jaime takes the poster from him. “ _Carrera Esqueleto_. It means ‘skeleton race’. It’s an annual foot race they have every year.”

Bart’s eyes light up. “If there’s anywhere Wally would be, it’d be there. Where do I sign up?”

Elena pipes up, pointing to the bustling shops and vendors–filled cobblestone streets. “All the big events are held at the plaza.”

“Crash!” Bart says. “Come on, time’s a tickin’. And who knows, maybe we’ll run into him on the way. Boy, that’d make everything so much easier, right Blue?”

“Right,” Ted and Jaime reply in unison, before turning to stare at each other.

Not wanting to wait a second longer, Bart grabs Jaime’s hand and takes off into the street. Ted and Elena trail behind, barely able to keep up with the couple.

“Bart. _Cariño_. Slow down,” Jaime says. “ _Hijole_ , how are you still so fast?”

“Can’t afford to slow down,” Bart replies. “The sooner we find Wally, the sooner we can go home together. There’s no time to waste.”


	3. Chapter 3

Under any other circumstance, Jaime would take his time to absorb the sights around him. But his first priority is the man pulling him by the hand so hard that it feels like his wrist is going to pop off his arm. He barely keeps up as Bart speeds through the street, zigzagging as he narrowly avoids pedestrians and vendors’ booths and light poles. Bart’s hair billows behind, whipping Jaime’s face more than once. 

Yet even then Jaime can’t help but say to himself, “ _Una vez que salgamos de aquí, me casaré con este hombre._ ”

“What?” Bart asks, glancing back for just a second.

“Nothing,” he replies.

They run past countless people going about their day, not too different from those on Earth. There’s a couple donning a fancy suit and white dress with glass shards embedded debating over who’s going to pay for dinner. There’s a family with charred clothing playing baseball by their townhouse. A skateboarding teenager clips by Jaime and he winces as the board scrapes his ankle. A golden retriever _alebrije_ chases after the teenager. The smell of buttery popcorn and fried _sopapillas_ wafts through the air, making Jaime’s mouth water. Ted and Elena are right behind them, and Jaime makes sure to look back once in a while and keep them in his sight, and when they get lost in the crowd he turns to Bart.

“Bart, _por favor_ , can we take a breather at least? Wait for the other to catch up?” he asks.

Bart huffs. “Ugh, _fine_.”

He crosses his arms and plops down on the cobblestone curb, a stray lock of hair falling in between his eyes. He tries to blow it out of his face and pouts when it’s to no avail. Jaime laughs and sits down beside him. He moves the strand of hair from Bart’s face and tucks it behind his ear, and Jaime takes a moment to admire the flecks of gold reflecting in those emerald irises.

Leaning closer, Jaime breathes, “May I?”

“How many times have I told you, you don’t have to ask,” Bart replies.

Jaime shrugs. “I want to.”

He cups Bart’s face in his palms and leans into a chaste kiss—not too impassioned, but slower and with a type of love that could ground even the most anxious and hyperactive of speedsters. He closes his eyes and drinks it all in as Bart pulls forward and places his hands on the nape of Jaime’s neck. The painted _papier-mâché_ masks bump against each other but Jaime ignores it.

They rest their foreheads against each other as they pull apart.

“You’re worrying too much, _cariño_.”

“M’not worried,” Bart says.

“ _Cállate_ ,” Jaime responds. “Your thoughts are as loud as the rest of you.”

Bart draws a knee to his chest and rests his head on Jaime’s shoulder. Jaime wraps an arm around the younger man’s waist.

“Okay, you got me. I’m worried. And scared. And, I dunno, everything, I guess,” Bart admits. “Our chances of finding Wally were already slim with superpowers. What happens if we can’t find him when sunrise comes? I don’t wanna die.”

Jaime puts his other arm around him in a soothing hug and says, “I’m not letting that happen.”

“Darling, that’s not something in your control,” Bart says. “This is death we’re talking about.”

He buries his face in Bart’s hair and replies, “Death can fight me. I had you first. Finders keepers.”

Throughout his life, Jaime has been told that when good people die, they’re taken by angels to a glowing white paradise and that when not-so-good people die, they’re cast into the fiery depths. If he’s being honest, he’s never been a fan of that arbitrary dichotomy. According to his family’s religion, Jaime would be condemned to the bad place regardless of all the good he does as both a hero and a civilian doctor all because he loves someone who happens to be the same gender. 

Strangely, he’s glad to have the opportunity to see what happens when people die. There are no pearly gates and no flaming pits. Only human beings living out an extension of life with those they care about. 

Perhaps, he thinks, heaven isn’t a some _where_ , but a some _one_. Perhaps it’s in the things people choose to surround themselves with and who they choose to devote their entire heart to. Perhaps heaven is the sleepovers Milagro has with her girlfriends and Tim’s video of Cassie spewing soda from her nose and stolen junk food kisses while marathoning _Star Trek_. 

Jaime’s heaven smells like strawberry and has an affinity for ugly ‘90s-print shirts. 

He plants a kiss on Bart’s temple as Ted and Elena finally catch up, both out of breath.

“ _Díos mio_ ,” Elena pants. “You couldn’t wait for half of the group? These old bones are not what they used to be.”

“ _Lo siento_. It won’t happen again. Right, Bart?” Jaime nudges his boyfriend.

For a moment, Bart seems distracted by something behind them, but when Jaime turns to look, he only sees an Old Western bar. He shrugs and turns back to the other two.

“We still have time before the race,” says Elena. “What do you want to do until then?”

Bart jumps up, words tumbling out of his mouth. "Split up, see if you can find Wally somewhere in the crowd. I, uh, gotta use the bathroom. I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t wait up."

As the speedster slips through the swinging saloon doors, Ted says to Jaime, "Should I tell him there are no bathrooms in the Land of the Dead?"

“Alright,” Elena says, “you heard him. Split up and start looking. Jaime, _mi_ _nieto_ , you’re coming with me. I don’t want you getting lost.”

“I’ll go this way then,” Ted suggests, pointing in the opposite direction. “Rendezvous back here in ten?”

“This is one of Bart’s super obvious lies and he’s actually off doing something else. Better make it twenty and pretend we don’t know,” Jaime replies.

Elena gives him a disapproving look as the group splits. Jaime readjusts his _calavera_ mask, including fixing a displaced feather, and follows after. He keeps his eyes peeled for a yellow and red Kid Flash suit. Everyone else seems to be wearing what they died in, so it makes sense that Wally would be the same.

“We’re looking for a college-aged guy in a yellow spandex,” Jaime says. “He might or might not have red hair; this whole _calacas_ with hair thing is still _muy_ confusing.”

“So not that different from _him_ then?” She jabs her thumb back at the bar.

He sighs. “ _Sí_.”

As they search around corners and peer into dark alleyways, Jaime periodically glances at his grandmother, unable to push aside the feeling of knowing that there’s something she’s not telling him.

As they walk past the umpteenth stray _alebrije_ , Jaime stops and turns around.

“ _Hay algo que quieres decir_ ,” he says, straightforward but still polite. “I know there is. If you’re going to say something bad about Bart or me or the both of us, _prefiero que lo hagas ahora._ ”

Elena wrings her hands and sits down on a nearby bench. 

“ _No sé_. Where do I start?” she asks. “You’re a smart boy, _mijito_. I thought you would make better decisions.”

He crosses his arms. “Better decisions?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Like what, exactly?”

“Like settling down with a nice girl instead of…” she gestures meaninglessly. “I think that Bart boy influenced you the wrong way.”

Jaime scoffs, not believing what he’s hearing. “Bart? A bad influence? He's been nothing but good to me since the day we met. He could’ve taken the easy route and killed me but instead, he chose to show me compassion and love. That’s, like, the complete opposite of a bad influence.”

“What about that Traci girl from your university?” Elena asks. “She wouldn’t be a bad girlfriend.”

“ _Abuela_ , Traci has a wife,” Jaime points out. “And Bart’s an amazing boyfriend. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.”

“The perfect woman is somewhere out there,” she says.

“That doesn’t matter,” he counters. “I don’t want her. I want Bart.”

She sighs. “ _Ay, mijito_. We’re talking in circles. I probably will never understand this, but there is no time for us to argue. We need to be finding that _primo_ of his.”

She’s looking for a way out of the conversation, Jaime can see, but he knows she’s right in that they can’t afford to stop and argue. He shoves his hands into the jacket pockets, ignoring their half-skeletal appearance.

“Let’s meet back with Ted. See if he’s got any leads.”

They find Ted back at the start, humming and sifting through the offerings in his splintering bike basket, seeming like he’s in his own world. His eyes light up when he pulls a heart-shaped chocolate box from the pile. Ted pops one of the confections in his mouth before placing the box back, nestling it between a bouquet of dark roses and a Stevie Wonder album. Jaime coughs to get his attention.

“Oh, hey!” Ted greets. “You guys find anything?”

Jaime shakes his head. “You?”

“No,” the man says. 

“We should look again, maybe in a different direction,” Elena suggests. “Ted, you take Jaime this time. I still do not want him going off by himself.”

He’s an adult; he doesn’t need supervision. Jaime groans at the idea but relents, not wanting to stir up any more unnecessary trouble. 

“We can start at the market,” Ted says. 

As they make their way past the colorful stalls, searching in every nook and cranny, Jaime’s mind drifts to the terrifying notion of _“what if they fail?”_. Truth be told, he doesn’t know what he would do if he had to return to the Land of the Living without Bart. Who would he laugh with? Who would he sing to? Who would he kiss goodnight? It’d just be Jaime in a too big, too empty apartment and the thought of all of a sudden having to navigate a world without Bart terrifies him unlike anything else.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Jaime almost misses something glimmer in the corner of his eye. He stops and takes a couple of steps back. Jaime looks up at the hanging sign reading, “Martha’s Antiques”. Peering through the wide window, he sees shelves piled high with porcelain china and old furniture scattered throughout the door. 

Those aren’t what catches his attention. Dead center in a jewelry display case, resting in a black velvet box, is the most beautiful ring Jaime has ever laid eyes on, and he yearns for a closer look. 

The bell jingles as he opens the rickety old door. A woman at the front desk, appearing to be in her thirties, looks up from her book.

“Welcome!” she greets. “How may I help you today?”

Jaime walks over to a glass case laden with jewels and gemstones of all eras, from Egyptian amulets to rappers’ gold chains. But he’s focused on the ring, which is more stunning up close. The rose gold band snakes back and forth like woven ivy branches. They meet at the center, where two hearts—one a brilliant red ruby, the other a deep blue sapphire—meet in opposite configurations, similar to a yin yang. The plaque underneath dates it to almost a century back.

He asks the woman, “How much for that ring?”

“That one?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies. “How much for it?”

She scans a barcode on the bottom of the box. “Twenty-one thousand pesos.”

Jaime blinks in confusion. “Pesos?”

“I got this,” Ted pipes up from behind, patting the pockets of his suit. “Just let me find my checkbook.” He leans over and whispers, “Mexican afterlife, Mexican currency.” 

“Makes sense,” Jaime mutters. “But what are you–”

Ted pulls out a checkbook and his pen. “You want that for your boyfriend, right?”

“Er, yes?”

Ted glances from Jaime to the ring. “You sure? I’m no fashion guru, but even I can tell that’s out of style for the living world.”

He laughs. “ _Ese_ , ‘out of style’ _is_ Bart’s style. It’s perfect for him. But you don’t have to do this. You’re already helping out a ton.”

Ted chuckles and slaps the check on the counter, saying, “I can’t think of anything better to spend my money on.”

Jaime gapes like a fish as the woman processes the check and Ted hands him the box. Outside, Jaime catches him by the hem of his sleeve.

“Dude!” he exclaims. “What’d you do that for?”

Ted replies, “I don’t see you having twenty grand on you. I was a CEO, I have plenty to spare.”

“But you didn’t have to,” Jaime says.

“But I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Ted stops walking and sighs. He sinks to the curb and motions for Jaime to join him.

He says, “I’m ensuring that my successor doesn’t make the same mistakes I did.”

Jaime furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Ted reaches into his basket and draws out a photo. In it, he’s in his civilian clothes, standing next to a blond-haired man, smiling.

“I had a speedster too, a long time ago,” he says. “His name’s Michael.”

“Michael?”

“Carter. Michael Carter. Booster Gold to the hero community. Mikey to me.”

Jaime glances back down at the ring. “Was he your…”

Ted shakes his head. 

“Mike was my best friend,” he replies. “Still is, actually. He makes sure I remember that by leaving a ton of offerings every year. We were… different. Maybe as different as anyone could be but I think that’s what made us great. We balanced each other out. Once in a while, we butted heads but at the end of the day, I could always count on him to have my back. Then, somewhere along the way, he became something more. I wanted to tell him but…”

Though he knows his consolation won’t do anything, Jaime places a gentle hand on Ted’s shoulder as the latter keeps talking.

“His mother—the lady at the office—died not long before I did. Before she passed, I promised her that I would make sure he was never alone. And she resents me because I had _one job_.” He lets out a single bitter chuckle. “I don’t blame her. I resent me too. I wasn’t supposed to die. I…” 

He chokes. 

“I didn’t want to die.”

Jaime isn’t sure what to say as he watches Ted’s shoulders sag. His body shakes like a leaf as he takes a long breath. 

"Jaime,” Ted starts, looking at the other man, "I don't want to see history repeat itself. You love him, right?"

"Yes," is his instant reply. "More than anything."

"Then why don't you ask him?"

Jaime falls silent at that, glancing down at the ring, rolling it tenderly in his palm. So many reasons. So many reasons he can’t ask, but it all boils down to just one thing.

"I'm waiting for the perfect moment."

Sighing, Ted tucks the photo away into his jacket; Jaime does the same with the ring. 

"You're gonna find yourself waiting and waiting until it's too late, Jaime," Ted murmurs. "Trust me, if you have something to say, say it."

Jaime knows he’s right but deep down the concerns linger. What if Bart says no? What if neither of them are ready for that kind of commitment? What if everything they’ve worked so hard for falls apart? 

“He loves you too,” Ted says, as if reading Jaime’s thoughts. “I’ve only known you guys for a couple of hours but there’s no mistaking the way he looks at you. He’ll say yes.”

Another question rests on the tip of Jaime’s tongue.

“Would you have done it?”

Ted tilts his head. “Done what?”

“If you hadn’t died, would you have had the nerve to tell him?” Jaime asks.

He scratches the back of his head. “Now that you mention it… I’m not sure. I think I would’ve been too scared.”

Around them, the spirit world is more alive than ever, as if the street lamps glow brighter with every hour of the night. It’s almost tangible how much lighter the air feels—as if the previous life’s worries are left at the golden gates. Jaime closes his eyes and lets it wrap around him like a ribbon. When he opens then, a tension that he doesn’t realize his muscles are holding lifts and floats away like a balloon.

“Death is just an extension of life,” he says, giving the man a reassuring look. “You’ll get your second chance.”

Ted smiles before checking his watch. “We should meet back up with your grandmother. And who knows, maybe Bart will be done using the nonexistent bathroom.”

Jaime returns the smile as the two make their way back to the starting point. Elena is waiting on the bench, arms crossed as she taps her foot. Jaime is only half surprised when there’s still no sign of Bart, as if he disappeared off the face of the underworld. He sits down next to her, albeit at a slight distance.

“No sign of Wally?” he asks.

“For a smart person, you ask some ridiculous questions,” Elena replies.

Jaime chuckles, leaning back. “Yeah, that one’s on me.”

There’s a beat of silence before she jabs her thumb at the building behind them. “I found your lover. He’s inside, chatting with a random teenager.”

Jaime stands up. “We don’t have all night. I’ll go get him.”

“ _Hmph_. You do that.”

Jaime sighs and makes his way across the bar. The place reminds him of a medieval tavern, like at a Rennaissance fair. Shot glasses clink against each other to the beat of the music on the jukebox as a few patrons sing along, slurring off-tune. The sharp, acrid smell of whiskey stings his nostrils and makes his eyes water. Hoping no one notices, Jaime lifts his mask slightly to scratch his nose.

From partway across the room, he hears someone slap a table and say, “Read ‘em and weep, boys.”

Jaime whirls around to spot a horde gathering around one of the corner tables. Muttering a _“perdóneme”_ , he pushes his way through the crowd. He’s somehow astounded yet unsurprised when he sees Bart sitting across from a shorter teenage boy. The bartender stands between them, acting as both a dealer and referee. The table groans as red, white, and blue poker chips weigh down on the speedster’s side. Bart’s eyes light up when his eyes meet Jaime’s.

“Babe, check it out!” he calls. “I won!”

Jaime puts his hands on his hips. “ _Muy bien._ Not like we’re on a time crunch or anything.”

Bart turns to the teen. “Alright, short stack. We had a deal.”

With the game now over, the crowd disperses, back to minding their own business. The bartender offers Jaime a chair, but he politely declines. He taps his foot, waiting for someone to explain what he’s supposed to be looking at.

The teen huffs. “Fine, whatever. But in my defense, I was going easy on you.”

“Sure,” Bart scoffs. “It’s _not at all_ your fault for underestimating an Allen.”

“I died before Bruce trained me on speedsters, okay? Cut me some slack.”

“ _Díos mio,_ ” Jaime groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will someone please just tell me what’s going on?”

Bart and the _calaca_ teen turn to Jaime.

“Kid,” Bart begins, “This is my boyfriend Jaime. Jaime, meet–”

The boy waves him off. “I can introduce myself.” He spits into his palm and holds it out to Jaime. “Jason Todd, please to meetcha!”

An inexplicable shiver runs down Jaime’s spine when he lays eyes on the former sidekick. He’s heard the name Jason Todd more times than he can count. Every member of the hero community has heard the story of the legendary second Robin who was tortured and killed at the hands of one of Gotham’s worst villains, the tale circulating almost like that of a cryptid. He doesn’t mean to stare and make things awkward, but it’s difficult to ignore the shredded, bloodstained uniform, the disheveled black hair, and the missing shoe. Not to mention how short—and how young—the boy is. Jaime can’t put it into words, but meeting the kid is simultaneously the most unsettling and heartbreaking thing he’s ever done.

He turns to his boyfriend. “We have six hours two find Wally and get home. I hardly think this is a good time for you to be playing Batman.”

Jason lets out a quiet scoff. “Not like Batman could play Batman either.”

“Hang on now, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” Bart replies.

Jaime motions for him to go on. Bart puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason shakes it off and shoots him an annoyed glare.

Bart beams from ear to ear. “This little rascal is our ticket to winning the Skeleton Race.”

“Oookay.” Jaime crosses his arms, a little confused and very unamused. “You lost me.”

Bart throws an arm around Jaime’s shoulder. “Alright then, let’s take it from the top.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Death can fight me. I had you first. Finders keepers.”

Tears prick the corner of Bart’s eyes and at that moment, he wants nothing more than to crawl into Jaime’s arms and stay where it’s safe and warm. How he got so lucky, he has no idea. Head nuzzling against his boyfriend’s chest, he steadies his shaky breathing by syncing it with Jaime’s heartbeat. If Bart could choose to remain there forever, he would do it in a heartbeat.

At the same time that Ted and Elena catch up, a loud voice with a distinct East Coast accent grabs his attention from inside the bar.

“You’re messing with the wrong dude, buddy. I got connections all around. Important connections. Superhero connections. Batman, Wonder Woman, Kid Flash. You name ‘em, I know ‘em, so one little call is all it takes to put this garbage dump out of business.”

Craning his neck to get a better listen, it wasn’t hard for Bart to locate the source. Kneeling on a too-tall barstool is a skeleton teenager in mangled, brightly colored clothing. A torn cape hangs from his shoulders and he’s wearing a single green shoe. The boy’s hair is scruffed up, as if he’d just gotten into a schoolyard brawl, and his eyes are a brilliant baby blue. But the biggest thing that catches Bart’s eye is the familiar yellow ‘R’ splayed across his chest.

The boy throws his hands up when the bartender denies him again.

“ _Lo siento_. It won’t happen again. Right, Bart?”

“Hm?”

By the time he turns around, the conversation is already moving forward. Bart focuses back on the strange skeleton teen claiming to know the original Kid Flash. Though there’s a chance he might be bluffing, something about him piques Bart’s interests. He reckons it’s worth sparing a moment to check out of this child is for real.

“We still have time before the race,” Elena states. “What do you want to do until then?”

Bart jumps up, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can even fully process his thoughts. "Split up, see if you can find Wally somewhere in the crowd. I, uh, gotta use the bathroom. I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t wait up."

Ignoring their confused expressions, he slips into the busy tavern.

The first thing that hits him is the _stench_. 

It’s sharper than anything Bart had encountered on Earth. As a hero, he’s had his fair share of awful odors, but this one nearly knocks him off his feet. He plugs his nose but that doesn’t stop it from stinging his eyes, making them water like a table full of chopped onions. 

Vision blurred, he bumps into one of the tables, earning him a, “Watch where you’re going!”

“Right, sorry, my bad.” He backs up, only to stumble into one of the waiters, knocking their cart out of their hands. 

The stack of shot glasses sway, and Bart barely catches it before it can tumble to the ground. He wipes his eyes with his shirt and mumbles a rushed apology to the server before making his way to the bar.

The stools are empty save for the one with the teenager. Bart leaves a space between himself and the teen, watching closely out of the corner of his eye as the latter continues to argue with the staff. He tries to grab a menu, only for it to slip out of his fingers and into the sink behind the bar. 

"What do you mean I'm still too young to drink? I've been dead for fifteen years. I'm pretty much thirty!” the boy exclaims.

“For the last time, _muchacho_ ,” the bartender says, “rules are rules. You died at fifteen, your body is fifteen, therefore you are fifteen. _¿Comprendes?_ ” 

The boy keeps ranting—mostly in English, but with a few Spanish cuss words sprinkled throughout. 

The bored and tired–looking employee turns to Bart. “And what can I get you?”

“Just a beer,” Bart replies, pointing to the fridge behind the man.

He glances at the sulking teen.

“Make that two,” he amends.

The bartender eyes Bart. “You’re not gonna give one to that minor, are you?”

“ _Pssh_ , him?” Bart asks. “I’ve never even met him.”

With an uninterested hum, the man slides him a pair of green glass bottles. As soon as he turns his back, Bart nudges the teen.

“What–”

Bart motions for the boy to be quiet as he hands him a bottle under the counter. The teen—the Robin—gives him a gracious nod. 

“Rules. Just the worst, right?” Bart comments.

“I know, right?” the kid replies. “I can become a certified priest in this place but I can’t buy a tequila shot. It’s so dumb”

“Agreed.”

The two bask in a moment of silence as they sip their drinks, and they each seem to be carefully watching the other.

The boy turns to Bart and asks, “Aight, what’s the catch?”

“What makes you think there’s a catch?” he asks back.

“I didn’t die yesterday. There’s always a catch.”

“Okay, you got me,” he admits. “I was wondering if we could talk. I heard you say you know Kid Flash—Wally West—right?”

“Yeah. He was Nightwing’s friend more, but I knew him. Whatsit to ya?”

Bart takes another sip before saying, “I need to find him. Tonight.”

The Robin tilts his head and squints. “Who are you?”

“Oh, my bad.” Bart turns and offers a handshake. “Bart Allen. Formerly Impulse and the second Kid Flash, now the newest Flash.”

“Jason Todd, AKA Batman’s better half.” The boy spits on his hand before taking the handshake. “So you’re an Allen, eh? Like Barry Allen? You his kid or sumthin’?”

“Grandkid, actually. There’s this whole time travel thing, but that’s a different story. Point is: I’m related to Wally and I need his blessing to get out of here before sunrise.”

“What’d’ya mean by _‘get outta here’_?”

Bart glances around before lifting his mask. The boy opens his mouth to scream, but Bart clamps his hand over it.

“Yeah, I know, it’s not normal,” he says. “That’s why I need to find Wally. Since you know him, do you have any idea where he could be?”

Jason rubs his chin. “Tonight’s that big running race, right?”

“Yeah. Saw a flyer earlier.”

“Wally won last year,” the former Robin explains, “which means he can’t enter again this year. Y’know, to give other runners a chance.”

“Oh,” Bart says, deflated.

“But,” Jason continues, “there’s an after-party for all the winners of the race, past and present. If anything, that’s where he’s gonna be.”

“Fantastic!” the man exclaims. “How do I get an invite?”

“I just said: ya gotta win the race.”

Bart pumps his fists in the air. “That’ll be easy. I’m a Flash. We’re born to run.”

Jason finishes his bottle and chucks it in a nearby recycling bin.

“You’re forgettin’ one thing, Barry.”

“It’s Bart.”

“Same difference,” he waves. “Ya can’t use powers here. Didn’t anyone tell ya that?”

Bart slapped his forehead and groans.

“Damnit, I almost forgot. Ted told us about that earlier.”

Jason cocks his head. “Ted?”

“Blue Beetle. He’s with my boyfriend right now.”

“Ted Kord is dating your boyfriend?”

“Not what I meant! Jesus f–” Bart groans and buries his face in his hands. “How am I supposed to win without my super-speed?”

Jason hums as he takes the rest of Bart’s drink. “I can train ya.”

Bart looks at him incredulously. “Train me?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, taking a swig. “In fact, I actually trained Wally.”

“That’s perfect!” Bart exclaims, jumping out of his seat. “You can train me like you did with him, then I can win this thing!”

Jason cuts him off. “Ah ah ah. I don’t do things for free. Batman taught me that everything must be earned.”

Of course, the _one_ time a Robin decides to listen to their mentor. Bart pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Fine, whatever, just tell me what I need to do.”

Jason saunters over to where a few patrons are sitting around a table. Plastic chips are stacked in front of each one. A dealer shuffles a deck of cards and begins doling them out. The teen pulls up a couple of extra chairs.

“All ya gotta do is beat me,” he says. 

Is Bart seriously about to stop in the middle of a time-sensitive mission to play Poker with a fifteen-year-old? He doesn’t want to, but there aren’t many other options. He needs Jason’s training if he’s going to stand a chance at seeing his cousin.

He acquiesces. “Alright. I win, you train me for the race and help me get to Wally.”

Jason plops into a chair with a smirk. “And if I win…” he gazes towards the back door.

Bart motions impatiently. “Go on.”

“There are some mighty fine cars parked out back,” he says, “and with some real nice tires. I want ‘em, and if I win you’re gonna help me get ‘em.”

Bart sighs. “You got yourself a deal, kid.”

Jaime is _so_ going to kill him, but Bart’s convinced that he’s making the right moves.

As the dealer deals the cards and the chips, she says, “Now, I want a good, clean game from all of you. Standard five cards, no betting limit. Bluffs are allowed but no hiding tricks up your sleeve.” The woman glares at Jason. “Understood, _chico_?”

He responds with a mock salute. Bart swallows, wondering what on Earth is he getting himself into.

“Everybody, place your initial bets.”

Bart, Jason, and the other two players each toss a white chip into the middle. The dealer points to the player on her left—a college-aged frat boy—signaling for him to start. 

“I’ll raise you five,” he says, putting down a red chip.

It goes to the next person—a woman with a 1950s hairdo. She throws in the same amount and they move on to Jason.

His eyes flick to each player until landing on Bart. With a smug smile, he slides a whopping half of his chips towards the middle. Immediately, the other two players fold.

“Well?” Jason asks. “You gonna make your move?”

Bart suppresses a groan as he folds, thankful that he never got around to betting anything more than one white chip. Jason collects his winnings and the dealer starts handing out new cards.

 _“It’s okay,”_ Bart tells himself. _“It’s just one round. Plenty more to go.”_

He keeps his cards close to his body and watches the others, but glares at Jason as they proceed with the second round. This time, there are no outrageous bets from the beginning, just slow and steady calls with the bets gradually increasing. Bart switches out one of his cards, earning him one card closer to a straight flush. The frat guy raises again and the ‘50s lady drops out.

Half his pile is gone when the college student finally folds. A small audience gathers as it’s down to Bart and Jason. Bart adds another few pieces to the ever-growing mountain in the middle. To his dismay, Jason pushes forward an entire stack of blue chips.

“Screw this,” the frat boy says, throwing his cards down. “I’m outta here.”

“Me too,” the woman agrees. “I’m going home.”

Jason looks at Bart. “What’ll it be, Allen? Another stupid, impulsive move, just like all the other Flashes?”

The boy is trying to get Bart riled up. The speedster knows it. And as much as he doesn’t want it to, it’s starting to get to him.

He replies, “Check.”

They lay their cards out under the dealer’s eyes. She inspects it before pointing to Jason, and once again he claims it all to himself.

With a pile twice the size of Bart’s, a sane person would give up and walk away, like the other two players. 

Instead, Bart says, “Deal me out.”

His hand is terrible—not even one pair, but he doesn’t let it show.

Jason goes first, cutting his pile half, pushing in the exact number of chips that Bart has on his side with a self-righteous smirk.

Bart inhales.

_“You can win this. If not for yourself, then for Jaime.”_

The closer he observes Jason, the more Bart begins to notice the cracks in the confident facade. An eyebrow twitch here, a thumb moving there. The younger one keeps glancing down at his cards, before turning back up just as quickly, as if he’s hoping no one would notice. While the tavern sees the sly smile of a mischievous teenager, Bart sees the hidden anticipation of someone who’s gotten too used to with chance being on his side.

Bart pushes his entire stack forward.

“All in.”

Jason’s eyes widen as Bart stares him down, as if daring him to waste his remaining chips.

“Your move, Boy Wonder.”

Mumbling under his breath, Jason slaps his cards on the table, face-down. 

“I fold. No way my hand’s better than yours if you’re betting _that_.”

Bart turns his hand around, revealing the five worthless cards.

Jason gapes. “You were bluffing!”

Bart smirks. “Never underestimate an Allen.”

The audience applauses and Jason relents to their deal. Then Jaime walks in with a less-than-impressed look and… 

“…And here we are,” Bart finishes.

Jaime sighs and says, “Let me get one thing straight–”

“Kinda hard when you’re dating me,” Bart replies, “but go on.”

“ _Ay Díos mio_ ,” Jaime mutters. “Basically, you gambled with Batman’s son to win his favor because he said he trained Wally, and you’re not even gonna bother to double-check if he’s telling the truth?”

Scratching the back of his head, Bart says, “Well, when you put it that way…”

“Hey!” Jason interjects. “I may be a tire-jacker and an occasional swindler, but I ain’t a liar. I trained Wally West and I can train his sequel too.”

“Just give him a chance,” Bart begs. “Please, it’ll be worth it.”

Jaime sighs.

“Fine. Let’s just get out of here, Ted _y_ _mi abuela_ are waiting.”

Outside, Ted and Elena break from their conversation and turn to Bart, Jaime, and Jason.

“What took you two so long?” Jaime’s grandmother demands.

“Yeah,” Ted adds, “And why’d you pick now to come back? Elena was just about to tell me the story of Jaime’s second grade recital.”

Bart perks up. “Jaime’s what now?”

Jaime laughs nervously and clamps his hand over Bart’s mouth. “No time for that, right guys?”

Bart responds by peppering Jaime’s palm with tiny kisses. Jaime draws his hand away, but Bart can see his mouth upturning in a small smile. Meanwhile, Elena rushes forward and pinches both of Jason’s cheeks with her bony fingers.

“ _¡Qué lindo!_ ” she exclaims. “Who is this _pequeño bebé_ and what was he doing in a place like that? A club is no place for children.”

“This is Jason. And he’s not a baby, he’s a teenager,” Bart says. “A short, shrimpy teenager. But still a teenager…” 

He falters as she continues fussing over the boy and shrugs. Grandmothers will be grandmothers, he reckons. As Elena forcibly smooths out Jason’s mop of hair, she bombards him with a million and one questions that has the other three men stifling their laughter.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself? Where is your family? And more importantly, where are your pants?”

“ _Señora_ , I’m always here by myself,” Jason replies, trying to pull away. “No family, just me.”

“Oh, _querido_ , that won’t do,” she coos. “Not to worry, I will be your _familia_ now. You can call me your Mamá Elena.”

Jason shoots the others a terrified look and mouths, _“Help me.”_

 _“You’re on your own,”_ Jaime mouths back as Elena pulls the Robin into a bone-crushing embrace.

“Did she do this a lot when she was alive?” Bart asks.

“Don’t even get me started,” Jaime answers. “You should’ve seen her at the children’s museum.”

Ted cuts in between Elena and Jason. 

“As adorable as this is,” he says, “we are running on a schedule. Elena, we have the rest of eternity to get Jason some practical clothes, but first…” 

He cocks his head towards Bart and Jaime.

“Right,” she says, releasing Jason from her iron grip.

Ted points towards the plaza. “Signups are over there.”

Bart groans when he sees _yet another_ line that they have to wait in, longer than the grocery store and front gate lines combined.

“Nope, I’m not doing this again.”

Jaime looks at him questioningly. “Bart, what are you– BART!”

“‘Scuse me, pardon me. Important superhero, coming through.”

Shoving his way to the front of the line, Bart ignores Jaime and the others calling to him. 

He marches up to the front and says, “I want to sign up for the Skeleton Race.”

“M’kay,” the woman at the counter says. “Entrance fee?”

“Um… what?”

“You need to pay to compete,” she says. “No fee, no entry.”

“I got this,” Ted interrupts, flashing a checkbook.

The lady stops him in his tracks. “I’m sorry, sir. We can only accept cash, not cards or personal checks.”

“Oh, alright.” Ted sticks a hand in his pockets.

His expression shifts.

“I swear, I have cash somewhere in here,” the man says. “Just give me a second…”

Bart looks to the others, because it’s a given that he never has money on him.

“ _Lo siento, cariño_ ,” says Jaime. “Wrong currency.”

Elena digs through her purse and draws out a few coins. 

“This is all I have,” she says. “The rest of my money is at my house but that is too far away. There is not enough time.”

Bart glances at Jason.

The boy puts his hands up. “Don’t look at me, I steal tires for a livin’.”

Ted cries out in frustration.

“I’m sorry guys. I don’t have any cash on me,” he says.

“What do we do now?” Jason asks. 

“We do that, ah, how do you say?” Elena snaps her fingers. “‘Divide and conquer’. Bart, you and _el petirrojo_ have to train for the race. The rest of us will find that money and you will enter.” 

Despite being the second shortest among the bunch, there is no mistaking the determination in her eyes. It simultaneously amazes and terrifies Bart. Elena Leal looks like she isn’t afraid to give God himself a spanking should he step out of line, and she for sure isn’t the type to let circumstances stop her. 

“You heard her.” Jason turns to Bart. “Now drop and gimme twenty!”

“Right now?” Bart asks, as the other three disperse across the plaza.

“Make that thirty for lip,” the teen says. 

Bart rolls his eyes and gets down on the ground. Before he can do his first push-up, weight presses down on his back. He cranes his head to see Jason sitting cross-legged in the middle of his back. It’s not like Jason weighs a ton—Bart’s carried backpacks heavier than the kid. But the sheer suddenness of it sends him shaking the boy off.

“What the heck, kid?!” Bart exclaims.

“We’re doin’ this Robin Style,” Jason replies. “This was how I trained Wally and how the bats trained me.”

“Batman sat on you?”

“No, but Nightwing did. Just be glad I ain’t him.”

Bart grumbles under his breath but lets Jason back on. As he does the push-ups, Jason begins to spout unhelpful commands and not-so-encouraging encouragement.

“C’mon, s’that all ya got?” he shouts. “My butler can do better and he’s ninety!”

“Not helpful, kid.”

“I’m tryin’ okay? I’m just givin’ ya the fast version of things—I trained Wally for six months when he did it.”

“‘Course you did.” Bart grunts as he does another push-up. “Bet Tim would be better at this.”

Jason arches an eyebrow. “Who’s Tim?”

“Third Robin. After you, but before Stephanie and Damian,” he replies, his brain focused less on what he’s saying and more on the exercise.

The pressure lifts and Bart looks up to see Jason glaring at the pavement.

“Uh, Jason? Everything okay?”

There’s a split second of silence, followed by a strangled whisper. 

“He replaced me.”

Bart curses, eyes widening.

“Jason, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean–”

“S’not your fault,” Jason says, trying—and failing—to conceal a sniffle. “M’not gonna shoot the messenger.” He wipes his face and points to the plaza. “Next lesson: run around ‘til ya find the others. Work those leg muscles or whatever.”

“Are you sure?” Bart asks.

“Who’s the trainer here?” Jason snaps. “Just go. I’ll catch up.”

Bart hesitates, but does as he’s told. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find the others, next to one of the kiosks. As always, Jaime is the first one he spots—and the one Bart body-slams into as he forgets to pump the brakes.

“Easy there, _correcamino_ ,” Jaime laughs, catching them both before they can fall. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bart tosses his arms around Jaime. 

“I know,” he replies, grinning.

Underneath the mask, Bart could see the corner of Jaime’s eyes crinkle.

“Where’s Jason?” Ted asks.

“He made me run here,” is Bart’s answer. “He said he’ll catch up. So, you guys find anything?”

Jaime sighs. “ _Lo siento, cariño._ ”

“It’s not easy to come up with a ton of cash on the spot,” says Ted. “You think they might make an exception if we ask again?”

Bart glances around at their tired and apologetic faces (except Jaime’s grandmother, who’s distracted by a flyer on a light pole). Guilt settles like an anchor in the pit of his gut.

“It’s okay, guys,” he says. “You tried your best. I appreciate it.”

Jaime pulls Bart close, latching an arm around him. He lifts Bart’s chin.

“We’ll figure something out,” Jaime says. “Together.”

Elena snatches the flyer from the pole and shows it to the group. It reads: **_“Music competition—free entry, cash prize”_**.

She looks straight at Jaime and says, “I found a way.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced in this chapter is an abridged version of "Proud Corazón" from the Coco soundtrack.

Jaime’s jaw drops as he looks from the flyer to his grandmother.

“ _¡No puede hablar en serio!_ ” he exclaims. “You can’t be serious!”

She shoves the piece of paper into his hands. “You want to help your lover go home? You win this competition to pay for his race fee.”

Jaime traces over the words with his thumb. He glances around the group, but more so at Bart, trying to gauge the latter’s opinion.

“Well,” Bart says, “why not? We don’t have any other options.”

“ _¡Exactamente!_ ” Elena asserts. “Plus, you already know how to perform, _mijito_. This is perfect.”

Just then, Jason jogs over, out of breath (a strange phenomenon, considering he has no lungs) with eyes the faintest tint of pink. He leans against the pole, panting.

“Y’know, ya might have a chance at winning,” he says, waving a finger at Bart. “Even without powers, you’re fast as f–”

“Language,” Ted cautions.

“…Fudge.”

The speedster beams, and pride swells in Jaime’s chest.

“So I’ve been told,” Bart replies, winking at Jaime.

Jason smoothes out his clothes. “So, what’d I miss?”

Ted points to the poster. Jason reads it and snorts.

“You better be real good,” he says. “That contest is bigger than _America’s Got Talent_.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jaime replies. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to sing.”

Bart chimes in, “You sing all the time at home—while we’re working, while we’re chill-hanging, while we– er, while you shower. Just pick one of those songs.”

Elena rubs her chin. “What about those songs you used to do as a child? You still play _la guitarra_ , _sí_?”

Jaime glances around.

“I’ve never done it in front of an audience before,” he says.

“Nonsense. What about your second grade talent show?” Elena asks.

Jaime cringes. “ _Abuela_ , that was over twenty years ago.”

Bart rests his chin on Jaime’s shoulder. “I still wanna hear the story.”

“ _Díos mio_. Let’s just say eight-year-old me was the epitome of extra. Like, I’m surprised anyone thought I was straight after that.”

“And you have never performed since?” Elena asks. “Not even once?”

Jaime’s never been a fan of the idea of putting on shows in front of big crowds. He gets nervous enough presenting to a small team during debriefings. Most people don’t know of his musical ability—it’s never something he needs to bring up. He just doesn’t play for other people.

He bites his lip and meets Bart’s eyes.

Bart. 

The one exception to the rule. The one person he isn’t afraid to whip out his guitar around. The one person who makes the music feel less like a performance and more like second nature.

Perhaps that’s what makes it so special to him. It’s never _just_ a chord or _just_ a tune. It’s the rose bouquets and meticulously planned dates. It’s three A.M. lullabies chasing away nightmares and stealing kisses on lazy Saturday afternoons. It’s the rare post-argument serenade from opposite sides of the door. It’s _“te amo siempre y para siempre”_. To play for anyone else would be to unlock the chest and leave himself open. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Not taking his eyes off of his boyfriend, Jaime says, “There’s a second time for everything. All I need is a guitar. Any of you have a spare one by chance?”

“There’s a music store right there and I bet they have the decency to take checks,” Ted replies. “It should only take a minute.”

“No need,” a voice chirps. “I got ya covered.”

Jaime yelps and whirls around to see Jason holding an ornately painted acoustic guitar.

“Where the heck did you get that?” Jaime asks.

“Uh…”

Across the square, a mariachi player shouts, “WHO TOOK MY GUITAR?!?”

“Oh, hey, you still need to sign up,” Jason prattles, ushering them in the opposite direction. “Gotta get there before all the slots are taken. Don’t wanna miss your chance, right Jamie?”

“It’s pronounced _Hai-mey_.”

“Same difference,” the boy waves. “And while you practice, Barry and I can squeeze in some last-minute training.”

“Not my name,” Bart mutters.

They reach a white tent with two _calalcas_ holding clipboards. Jaime slings the guitar over his back and approaches one of them.

“ _Hola_. I’m here to sign up for the music competition?” It comes as more of a question than a statement.

The worker hands him a slip of paper. “Sign here.”

Taken aback, Jaime asks, “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” they reply. “Hurry it up, you’re holdin’ the line.”

“I’d sign up if I had any talent,” Ted jokes.

Jaime scribbles his signature and hands it back.

Bart cheers while Elena says, “Now all you need is a song. It must be good—you are going against tough competition.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jaime mutters. “Which one should I sing?”

Bart begins to speak and Jaime cuts him off.

“I’m not singing _Fergalicious_.”

He opens his mouth again.

“Or _Despacito_.”

Bart pouts.

Ted asks, “What about Stevie Wonder? You can’t go wrong with Stevie Wonder.”

“ _Lo siento_ , I don’t know any of his songs,” says Jaime.

Ted scoffs, offended, while Jason suggests, “You should do death metal. It’s pretty popular ‘round these parts.”

Bart grimaces. “Won’t work. You’re about as hardcore as a pink butterfly. No offense.”

“No, you’re right,” Jaime says. “I think acoustic’s the best way to go.”

Elena snaps her fingers repeatedly. “What about that one song you played all those years back? What was it called?”

“Oh, I remember!” Jaime exclaims. “I think it might work.”

“It will do more than just work, _mijito_ ,” she says. 

Ted finds them a spot backstage to practice and flips over a few crates to sit on.

“If you need me, Jason and I will be over there doing training exercises from H-E–double hockey stick.” Bart places a kiss on Jaime’s cheek. “Good luck, babe.”

“I think you need it more than I do,” Jaime teases.

He peers around the open-air stage as the first audience members trickle in. Some chairs are set up, but it’s obvious that there won’t be anywhere near enough to accommodate the crowd. Jaime wipes his palms on his shorts.

 _“Díos mio, that’s a lot of people,”_ he thinks.

Focusing his attention backstage provides him with no comfort. All around, musicians of all calibers are squeezing in last-minute rehearsals and fixing the final touches on their appearance. Members of a gospel choir are fixing each other’s robes while their conductor sorts through sheet music. He spots the mariachi player that Jason stole the guitar from, though thankfully they haven’t spotted him. A pop singer is doing her vocal warm-ups while a punk rock band moved their instruments to the stage. Jaime is positive he even sees Beethoven among the contestants. The queasiness returns.

Jaime wishes the other contestants would drop out so he could win by forfeiture. It’s only fair, his brain rationalizes. What have they got at stake other than fifteen minutes of fame? He knows he’s being selfish, but can anyone blame him? The picture-perfect life he’s known is now standing on a fragile precipice. So sue him for wanting things to be a tad easier.

But a lesson he’s learned over and over is that nothing is easy. Except for love, good things don’t come free.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a bony hand on his shoulder. 

“You okay?” Ted asks.

“Yeah,” Jaime dismisses. “Good. Fine. Crash.”

“I take it you’ve been spending a lotta time with Bart,” Ted jokes.

He chuckles, but it dies down when he looks back around.

Like a child at their first recital, Jaime asks, “Do you really think I can win this?”

“Statistically, no.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hang on, I wasn’t finished,” Ted says. “You’re going up against some of the greatest musical talents in human history—Mozart, Freddy Mercury, the guy who wrote the State Farm jingle. Compared to them, you’re a nobody.”

“Wow. Dead people suck at pep talks.”

“Still not finished.” He sits down and pulls a crate up next to him. “You’re a nobody only when compared to them. The easiest solution would be to just not do that. Don’t measure yourself by someone else’s standards. You’re you. Those other guys have skill and fancy recording equipment, but you’ve got heart and I know you’ll defy the statistics.”

Jaime rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks, Ted. It’s still nerve-wracking performing for a crowd though. I mean, look at them.”

Ted opens his mouth to say something, only for his eyes to bulge out underneath the googles.

“Holy sh– _Is that Stevie Wonder?!?_ ” He bolts up. “Sorry, Jaime, be right back. Stevie, wait up! I’m your biggest fan!”

He’s gone before Jaime can tell him that Stevie Wonder is still alive and that it’s just a random guy in sunglasses. He turns his head back and comes eye-to-eye with his grandmother as if she teleported on top of a box.

She says, “Sit down, _mijito_. I think I can help you with your stage fright.”

Jaime obeys. It’s as if he’s a child again, with her towering over.

“How do I get over my stage fright?” he asks. 

“Simple,” she answers. “You don’t perform for the audience.”

“ _¿Cómo?_ ”

“Back in my day, I was a singer,” Elena says. “I played everywhere and everyone loved me. But no matter how many times I did it, I would get so sweaty that I ruined one dress and had to change into a new one before the show even started.”

Jaime giggles. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“There is a lot you don’t know about me,” she replies, “including how I conquered my fear by focusing on _tu abuelo_ instead of the whole audience. He was always in the front row—my biggest fan. I treated every concert like it was for him and only him. And later on, it became for your mother and _tíos y tías_.”

He glances to where Bart and Jason are training. Bart’s doing sit-ups while Jason holds a bag of gummy worms in front, and every time Bart comes close Jason pulls it away and tosses one in his mouth. Jaime smiles.

“So what you’re saying is…”

“Breathe. Look for the ones you would move the sky and sea for, and sing like the rest of the world doesn’t matter.”

“ _Gracias, Abuela_ ,” says Jaime. “Er, on a slightly unrelated note, where is _Abuelo_?”

“Still in the living world,” she answers. “He loves to dawdle with _tu hermana_. She’s his favorite.”

“He told me he didn’t have favorites.”

“He lied. Parents don’t have favorites. Grandparents do.”

“That explains why he had more photos of her on the fridge. I’m you’re favorite though, right?”

“No.”

Jaime whines playfully.

Elena laughs. “ _Estoy bromeando_. Now get ready, you’re next.”

Ted returns just then, muttering something about “confusing lookalikes”. At the same time, Bart and Jason gravitate towards it. Jason crumples and throws an empty wrapper over his shoulder, only to turn back grumbling when Ted makes him pick it up and dispose of it properly.

Jaime pushes down his sleeve and tightens the mask—he can’t risk being exposed at a time like this. 

“You’ll be great,” Bart says. “You got this. I believe in you.”

“Didn't doubt it for a second. Kiss for good luck?”

Bart brushes his lip against Jaime’s. 

“You’re such a sap,” the speedster says, smiling.

The current singer finishes with an opera-like high note and one of the crew members approaches Jaime.

“Jaime Reyes, you’re up.”

The few short steps feels like scaling a mountain as Jaime’s footsteps reverberate through the uneven wooden platform. The yellow lights prickle his skin and when he gazes out, he sees a sea of eyeballs trained on him. Watching. Silently judging.

With trembling hands, Jaime grips the guitar and strums the first chord. He slips, and the off-tune squeak echoes through the microphone and speakers. A few audience members begin to whisper among themselves. Some pick at their nails while others casually check their phones.

Next to the stage, Elena motions. 

_Breathe._

Jaime closes his eyes and inhales.

_Look for the ones you would move the sky and sea for._

He glances at the people he knows are rooting for him—Ted, Elena, Jason, Bart. Jaime places his fingers on the frets. The opening notes flow like a cool creek on a summer’s day.

_And sing._

“Say that I'm crazy or call me a fool.”

The audience directs their attention back to him. He doesn’t care. No, not one bit.

“But last night it seemed that I dreamed about you.”

Ted smiles up at him, and Jaime cocks his heads, beckoning him to join. Ted points to himself and mouths, _“Me?”_ , to which Jaime shrugs as if to say, _“Why not?”_

“When I opened my mouth what came out was a song.” 

Jaime makes room for the man. 

“And you knew every word and we all sang along.”

Ted pauses halfway and grabs Jason by the arm. 

“To a melody played on the strings of our souls.”

The crowd starts to clap and cheer.

“And a rhythm that rattled us down to the bone.”

Jason takes to the spotlight to show off his Gotham-style breakdancing.

“Our love for each other will live on forever.”

Jaime swings around to face his boyfriend and grandmother.

“In every beat of my proud _corazón_.”

The audience grows louder, almost to a deafening roar. While Jaime plays, Ted and Jason help Elena up the steep stairs, leaving Bart by himself next to the platform.

_“Ay mi familia, oiga mi gente.”_

She too joins in the revelry, grabbing a backup mic and linking arms with Ted. 

“ _Canten al coro_ , let it be known.”

Jaime walks to the edge of the stage and offers his hand to Bart. Bart waves him away at first, saying he’s no performer. Jaime insists. Bart hesitates before a smile forms on his lips and he takes Jaime’s hand.

“Our love for each other will live on forever…”

Twirling Bart under his arm, Jaime watches the speedster’s face light up. He lifts Bart’s chin ‘till they’re eye to eye and sings the last line as if it’s to an audience of one.

“…In every beat of my proud _corazón_.”

Applause and wolf whistles ring around the plaza and it’s clear that he’ll win the prize, yet all Jaime can focus on is Bart and those emerald eyes and galaxy of freckles and their hearts hammering in sync like a drumline.

_Like the rest of the world doesn’t matter._

Jaime finds himself still reeling after the show, with a bouquet in one hand and stack of cash weighing down in his pocket. His other hand is intertwined with Bart’s as they make their way back to the race sign-ups.

“I still can’t believe we won,” Jaime giggles. 

“You won,” Bart says. 

“No, _we_ won.” Jaime places a tiny kiss on Bart’s lips. “All of us. Together. As a fami…”

He notices Jason lingering behind, hands in his pockets, kicking pebbles along the pavement. Up ahead, Ted and Elena chatter amongst themselves—probably about more of Jaime’s embarrassing childhood moments.

He hands the money to Bart. “Why don’t you go ahead and sign up. I, uh, gotta use the bathroom.”

Once Bart rounds the corner, Jaime turns around and waits for Jason to catch up. 

Jason looks up at him and asks, “What’re ya doin’? Get a move on.”

“Something’s wrong,” Jaime says. “I can tell.”

Jason grumbles under his breath.

“What?”

“I said nothin’s wrong, Bug Boy.”

Jaime takes a seat by a marigold bed, and there’s a pang in his chest when he realizes that his sitting height is the same as the boy’s standing.

“Talk to me, _chiquito_.”

Jason motions for Jaime to scoot over. “I was born before ya, y’know?”

“True, but one of us is thirty and it's not you.”

Hugging a knee to his chest, Jason shifts his gaze to some pigeon _alebrijes_ pecking at crumbs.

“Batman replaced me.”

“Jason…”

“Don’t give me that ‘he loved me’ crap. If he loved me, he wouldn’t’ve gotten a new Robin. If he loved me, he would’ve made more time outside of patrols. If he loved me, he wouldn’t’ve left me alone with the Joker and–”

A sob escapes Jason’s lips. Jaime pulls him close, his arms able to wrap around the entire skeletal frame.

“He signed the adoption papers. He called me his son. He promised me a home. A family. He _lied_ to me.”

Struggling to find the right words, Jaime instead holds the boy a little tighter.

Jason hiccups. “Why doesn’t anyone want me?”

Swiping away the tears with his thumb, Jaime tells him, “You are wanted more than you let yourself believe. I mean, just look at the past couple of hours. You went from gambling by yourself in a trashy bar to basically being adopted by _mi abuela_.”

Jason chuckles. “True. If Batman wants to replace me, then two can play that game. Got another techy billionaire superhero right there, plus he doesn’t have a stupid cape.”

“That’s the spirit. I think.”

Bart jogs up to them, a shiny plastic band on his wrist and t-shirt wrapped around his waist. Jaime makes no effort to hide his enjoyment of the view.

“We’re in,” he says. “The race starts in half an hour.”

Jason points at the number on Bart’s wristband and cackles. “ _That’s_ your number? Man, I wish I had a camera. This is amazing!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Bart says. “They cap it at seventy racers and I was second to last. Just barely made it.”

Elena appears next to Jason, frowning with _la chancla_ in hand. 

“What’s so funny about that number, young man?” she asks, feigning curiosity. 

Jason gulps. “Nothing, Mamá Elena.”

“I thought so.”

“Where’s Ted?” Jaime asks.

Bart points to a sports store. “He’s grabbing some gear. He’ll meet us at the track.” He reaches forward and squeezes Jaime’s hand. Fire and determination dances in his eyes. “Let’s do this.”

Jaime smiles and squeezes back. “ _Sí_. Let’s.”


	6. Chapter 6

If he was in a movie, Bart figures now would be the part where an amped-up rock song would play in the background, like _The Final Countdown_ or _Eye of the Tiger._ The race doesn’t start for another several minutes, but the bright lights and crowded bodies are enough to make pearls of sweat drip down the side of his face. The mask is no help either.

After changing into the tank top and running shorts that Ted bought—ignoring his phantom white clavicle and femur—Bart finds three of the group members in the front row of the packed stands. They don matching crimson t-shirts that read, “#1 fan of 69”. Ted returns just then, carrying caramel corn and ice cream cones for everyone.

“Don’t worry, we’ll save some for you,” he says.

Jason tosses a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Speak for yourself.”

Bart turns to the boy. “Let’s go over the game plan one more time.”

Jason swallows and gestures to Jaime, who unfolds his map of the race track.

“Aight, so we’re here.” Jason points to a red starting line with a sticky finger. “From here, you’re gonna follow this track—three kilometers, it ain’t that long. The first leg is slightly uphill, so you wanna pace yourself.” 

“Makes sense.”

He points to a sharp curve on the map. “That turns into a sudden downhill here. We call it the ‘Death Slide’. It’s where most folks crash and burn—kinda like a NASCAR pileup. If you make it past there, you’re in the clear. Finish line’s same as the start.”

“Crashing is bad, got it,” Bart says. “Anything else?”

“Don’t lose your head.”

“Hey, don’t worry. I got an awesome trainer and my personal fan club. I’m not nervous at all.”

“That wasn’t a metaphor. Wally got his skull knocked off last year. And when in doubt: cheat."

"Jason..." Ted warns.

"Fine. Don't cheat," Jason grumbles, crossing his arms. "Buzzkill."

Jaime leans over the railing and the tension that Bart didn’t realize he was holding releases.

“You can do this, _cariño._ I believe in you.”

“Didn’t doubt it for a second. But a good luck kiss won’t hurt.”

“Who’s the sappy one now?”

Their lips press together for a split second until the runners are called to the starting line.

“See you at the finish line.” Bart blows a kiss and Jaime mimes catching it.

“Wait _,_ ” Elena calls out.

She reaches into her basket and hands Bart a hair tie.

He smiles. “Thanks, Señora Leal.”

A voice booms over the loudspeaker. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the nine thousandth annual Skeleton Race! We have seventy contestants here tonight coming from all over, eager to face off for the prize of going to the biggest, most exclusive party in the hills. Without further ado: racers, positions.”

Bart spares a glance around the contestants. It would’ve been ideal to start at the front as opposed to the very back, but there’s no time to ruminate on that. The majority of runners appear to be of an average skillset, though Bart does note that a few of them look like actual Olympians.

“On your marks…”

Planting his foot on the ground, he takes a deep breath.

“Get set…”

From the stands, Jaime and the rest holler at the top of their lungs.

“Go!”

The starter pistol fires and Bart shoots off, passing half of the runners almost right away. Adrenaline pulses through his veins and he reminds himself of Jason’s teaching. 

Pacing. 

Consistency over speed.

The grandstands disappear in a blur, the cheers becoming numb in Bart’s ears. Attention trained forward, he counts the number of steps to the first real obstacle. His heart hammered through his ribcage—whether it was adrenaline or excitement or dread, he wasn’t sure. The clouds of dust settle as sandy fillings in the gaps of his teeth.

The track tilts upward. A few people fall back, choosing to walk, but they’re not the ones he’s focusing on. A couple of feet ahead, another runner speeds up. Gravel crunches under Bart’s feet as he takes it up a notch, catching up to the racer known only to him as Number One. The runner points to Bart’s wristband and laughs. He rolls his eyes and pushes forward. The top of the hill grows closer, every step straining his muscles a little more than the last, like rubber bands being stretched to their limit.

The Death Slide is quite literally a slide—one made of pitch-black asphalt that almost catches him off guard. Bart digs his heel into the pavement, but finds to his horror that there’s zero traction. It's as if the slope is a wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater.

“Come on, you got this,” he tells himself. “Do it for Jaime.” 

Bart catches himself, the rough surface scraping, skinning, stinging the translucent flesh on his hands. All around him, skeletons trip and fall apart like loosely connected LEGO bricks. The bones pile up as people search for missing carpals, vertebrae, phalanges, as if they’re trying to find their needle in a pile of other needles. He ducks as a screaming skull flies over his head and he can see how Wally must have lost his head.

Bart leaps over the bone pile and his feet touch the flat ground once again, and finds himself in the home stretch.

The blinding white lights of the bleachers come into view. So does Number One, from the corner of Bart’s eye, almost like a hawk swooping in on its prey. The asphalt turns into loose gravel again, and Bart can hear his boyfriend long before he can see him. 

A staccato-like rattle grabs his attention, and it’s then that he notices the other racer’s kneecap jostle in a way kneecaps shouldn’t, like a screw being slowly shaken out of a running factory machine. 

And the pebbles below his feet—Bart can’t even fathom every single possibility. He settles on the simplest one.

He kicks his heel up, sending a teardrop-shaped stone at Number One. It lodges itself behind the racer’s patella. The joint twists. The skeleton’s leg falls apart in a twisting motion. Neither the audience nor the commentators notice—as far as they can tell, it’s all an accident.

With one final lunge, Bart tears through the ribbon. He’s not sure if it’s sweat or tears blurring his eyes, but one thing that stands clear is Jaime jumping over the fence and enveloping him in the biggest hug. 

“I did it,” Bart says, stunned.

Ted hands Bart a bottle of water. Bart takes a sip, swishing it around before spitting out the gritty taste in his mouth. Then he lifts his mask just enough to press his lips to Jaime’s, the taste of sweat mingling with sugary junk food.

When they pull apart, Jaime says, “I knew you could do it, _cariño_.”

Twenty minutes later, Bart finds himself in his old clothes again, standing at the steps in front of a glittering mansion. Who it belongs to, he has no idea. Pearly gates shimmer against the starless night sky and Bart feels underdressed even against the velvet carpet under his feet. Music and chatter echo from the tall windows and balconies decorated with string lights. White wine and marigolds perfume the air so thickly that Bart can taste it when he opens his mouth. Security guards are posted out front, checking for tickets from the champions. Bart’s laminated one wiggles like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

 _“This is it,”_ he thinks. _“I’ll finally get to see Wally again.”_

He steps forward and shows the winning ticket to a burly guard. “We’re this year’s race winners,” he says.

“Sorry, but this ticket is only good for one person. Everyone else must wait outside,” the guard replies.

Bart glances at the others. Ted is admiring the traditional Mexican architecture while Jason plays with the broad leaves of a potted plant. Elena gestures for him to go ahead.

Jaime says, “Go on, _amor_. We’ll wait.”

Bart returns with a two-finger salute. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

His breath catches in his throat the moment he steps inside. Light bounces off the crystal chandeliers and dance along marble walls littered with Renaissance paintings. Streamers and paper skulls drape from the endless cathedral-like ceiling. A buffet table stands to one side of the room, groaning under the weight of all the breads and meats and junk snacks and ice creams and fruits and pies and four-tiered cake. 

Bart helps himself to a chicken wing as he makes his way to the crowded dance floor. The music thrums in his ear like the beating of a helicopter rotor. Someone bumps into him and he narrowly avoids a tipping champagne glass. Another person attempts to dance with him, but he manages to twist away, wiping his hand on his pants.

Before he can register it, a stranger grabs Bart’s shoulder and drags him onto the raised stage next to the DJ’s turntable. The music stops abruptly and everyone turns their attention to him. When he looks out all he sees is an ocean of white stretching beyond the limits of his vision. A microphone is thrust into Bart’s hands as a host wearing too much cologne speaks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the winner of this year’s race!”

Applause and wolf whistles echo through the building, shaking the chandeliers.

“Tell us,” the host asks, “What is your name?”

A grin breaks out on Bart’s face. He puts his lips to the mic and with every ounce of hope and stupid bravery in his bones, answers.

“My name is Wally West.”

“You heard him,” the host says. “Let’s give it up for Wally West!”

The crowd, oblivious to the lie, cheers again. As the music starts back up, Bart hops off the stage, towards a giant marigold display in the hall, away from all the people. He takes a deep breath—the place even smells rich—and prays that his plan works.

Not even a minute later, a hand hooks onto his elbow.

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re playing at, but you better go back there and tell them the truth right now.”

He turns around and his breath hitches. Before he could hold himself back, Bart throws his arms around the copper-haired young man in a banana-yellow suit with the signature lightning bolt on his chest.

Bart chokes out, “I missed you, Wally.”

Wally shoves Bart off, smoothing out his clothes. He demands, “Seriously, who are you?”

“It’s me!” Bart exclaims. “I know it’s been a long time but you couldn’t have forgotten.”

_“…Bart?”_

Bart nods fervently. 

“But how?” Wally asks. “Do Barry and Iris know?”

“Okay, this is gonna be my third time going over this, but…” Bart lifts his mask.

Wally’s face pales. “Y-You’re…”

“I know. And I’m running out of time. That’s why I need your blessing to go home.” Bart plucks a heart-shaped petal from the display. “Here.”

Wally takes the petal, glancing from it to his cousin. “And what if I don’t?”

“Then I’m moded. Stuck here forever.”

Wally inspects the petal before saying, “Sucks to be you then.”

Bart’s jaw drops. “Wait, what?”

“You’re on your own,” Wally spats, turning away. 

“Please,” Bart begs. “I need to go home. I can’t leave Blue behind.”

Wally looks over his shoulder, eyes smoldering. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Is that what this is about?” Bart asks. “‘Cause if it is, I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you.”

“You should be.”

Bart falters. Everyone had said that Wally wouldn’t blame him.

The older speedster continues. “I had a tight-knit team, loving family, great school, amazing girlfriend. I had everything I could’ve needed to be happy and you took that from me.”

Bart chokes. “I didn’t mean for it happen. Just, please, let me go home.”

Wally snaps, “You did nothing for me. Why should I do anything for you?”

Tears well up in Bart’s eyes and he wipes them away with his hand. “Don’t say that! I did everything I could after. I know it’s not enough, but there’s no way you can ignore that.”

“Like what?” Wally whirls around, voice rising. “Getting friendly with the traitor who caused this mess in the first place?”

“You leave Jaime out of this!” Bart yells. “I held Artemis and your parents at your funeral. I wired up your hologram in the grotto. I carried on being Kid Flash so the world would think you were still alive. I cried for you every single night for _fourteen goddamn years_. I put your photo on the altar. Did you even try to visit?”

“A photo isn’t gonna give me my old life back.” Wally rips the petal in half. “Find yourself someone who actually cares.”

“You can’t do this!” Bart shouts. 

“Watch me.”

A pair of security guards pass by just then, stopping at the commotion. One asks Wally, “Is this guy bothering you?”

“N-no,” Bart answers. “We were just talking and–”

“Yes, he is,” Wally says coldly. “I’m tired. I’m gonna go home. Take him away.”

Cold teardrops roll down Bart’s face as the guards grab his arm.

“Come on,” one guard says gruffly.

“Wally, please!” Bart screams. “We’re family! Please!”

Wally’s retreating figure grows smaller and smaller as Bart is dragged out the back doors of the mansion, past the mosaic steps and rows of elegantly parked cars. He kicks and squirms and tries to bite an officer’s hand, but even as skeletons they’re built like tanks and overpower him like he’s a badly misbehaving child being escorted from the schoolyard.

Bart keeps insisting, “Let me go! This is all a misunderstanding!”

He’s so busy trying to wrench himself free that he doesn’t even notice where they’re taking him until the lights have disappeared and he’s thrown like a sack of potatoes onto the dank concrete floor of a holding cell with nothing but a raggedy cot chained to the corner. As far as he can see, he’s the only occupant.

“You’ll be spending the rest of the night here for disturbing the peace,” the guard states. “The morning shift guys will let you out.”

“ _No no no no no!_ ” Bart begs as the door slams shut with a resounding _CLANG_. “You guys are making a mistake! Please let me go!”

His hands shake the iron bars. The rusted cage clatters in the dark. The guard is nowhere to be seen, the sound of his tread getting more and more muffled with the distance. Dread worms its way into Bart’s stomach and up to his chest.

“Help! Somebody get me out of here!”

He tugs. He throws his entire weight against the door. Bart even tries to phase through, only to remember after twenty seconds of looking constipated that his powers don’t work. His voice echoes against the mildew-coated stone walls yet fall on deaf ears.

“Jason! Ted! Jaime!” A fresh wave of adrenaline courses through his veins. “Jaime, help! Please, Jaime.”

Bart lifts his shirt. The flesh around his ribs and lower spine is now transparent, and it’d be a matter of minutes before the last parts of him finally join. And he loses it again as he falls to his knees, the realization knocking the wind out of him. 

He won’t get married. He won't buy a house. He won’t have kids and watch them grow up. He won’t retire to a villa in the countryside with the love of his life beside him on the whole journey. He’s going to die alone in a dingy jail cell with no one to blame but himself. 

A sob escaped his lips, along with a single word.

_“Jaime.”_

Back pressed against the bars, Bart repeats the name as though it’s a magical spell that, if uttered enough times, would bring him the one person who could make things okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaime traces his shoe on the carpet, making circles and random swirls in the velvet. Ted ran out of things to talk about with Elena, so he just stands there too, eyeing the intricate details of the building. 

Jason gazes longingly at something in the distance before saying. “I, uh, gotta go to the bathroom.”

Before any of them could respond, he darts off.

“He knows there are no bathrooms,” Jaime states.

Ted nods.

“We’re not gonna go after him?”

Ted shakes his head. “He’s a teenager.”

“He’s grounded if he does anything though, isn’t he?”

Ted nods.

Jaime shoves his hands in his pocket, subconsciously outlining the ring with thumb. He glances at his grandmother, wondering whether she’d continue to visit if he marries Bart.

 _“Not if,”_ he reminds himself. _“When.”_

He opens his mouth. “Abuela, I–”

Before Jaime can finish his sentence, Jason comes racing back, breathing heavily as he clutches his side.

“Guys!” he exclaims. “I saw some cops throw Bart into the slammer!”

Jaime’s eyes widened. “What?!?”

“Yeah,” Jason pants. “Just now.”

“We have to get him out,” says Jaime. “Jason, where exactly is this jail?”

“Beyond the parking lot,” he gestures. “It’s this half-underground building next to the church.”

Elena puts her hands on her hips. “And what were you doing there, young man?”

“Uh…” Jason quickly hides a tire iron behind his back. “Doesn’t matter. Jaime’s right. We’re running out of time.”

 _“¡Espere, espere!”_ Elena exclaims. “Are you suggesting a prison break? _¿Estas loco?_ ”

“Maybe,” Jaime answers, running his fingers through his hair, pacing back and forth. “I don’t see another way.”

He jumps when Ted speaks up; the man is so quiet that Jaime almost forgets he’s there.

“I have an idea,” Ted says. “Everyone, huddle up.”

Five minutes later, Jaime finds himself ducking behind a metal trash can in a parking lot, squeezed in with the other three. He keeps his eyes trained on the security guards—the same ones Jason said took Bart. One is tall and well-built, reminding Jaime of the ex-military people who join the police force later in life. The other is the same height, but lankier, with a relaxed gait and lazy slouch. In the second one’s back pocket is a folded map. Both are facing away, too engrossed in their conversation to notice anything else.

Jaime motions to Ted, who hands over a paper clip from a utility belt. He then turns to his grandmother, who begrudgingly pulls a long thread from her sleeve. Mouthing a thanks to both, Jaime loops the string onto the paperclip, creating what looks like a fish hook on a flimsy line. 

He thinks to himself, _“Justice League training, don’t fail me now.”_

Twirling it like a lasso, Jaime aims and prays, keeping a tight grip on the thread. The clip snaps onto the map. Jason cheers and Ted shushes him. 

Carefully, Jaime tugs. The map slips out of the officer’s pocket and hits the cobblestone silently. When it’s clear that neither of them noticed, Jaime reels it in and hands the map to Ted.

The man unfolds the paper and points. “Our quickest route to Bart is straight ahead, down to the cells.” Ted turns to Jason and Elena. “You guys ready?”

Jason smiles and cracks his knuckles. “Ready Freddie.”

Ted looks at Elena. “You sure you got this? I can lend you one of my weapons.”

“No need.” She takes off a slipper. “I’ll manage.”

“Right.” Ted clears his throat. “Jaime and I will be waiting for your signal.”

Elena steps out from behind the trash can and motions for Jason to follow.

“Wait,” he says to Jaime. “I have something that might help.”

Jason whirls around and lifts his shirt, revealing a crowbar duct-taped to his spine.

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Where did you get that?”

“It’s a deathday gift,” Jason replies. “Now, let’s get these sons of–”

“Language,” Ted warns.

Jaime watches as his grandmother and Jason approach the cops—Elena faking a limp and Jason supporting her on his shoulder.

“Help!” Jason calls. “ _Mi abuela_ fell and twisted her ankle!”

The officers hurry up to her, flashlights shining.

“It hurts too much!” she cries, large tears streaming down her face. “Oh, the pain! The agony!”

Ted nudges Jaime. “She’s good.”

“She watched a lot of _telenovelas_.”

The skinny cop places a hand on her ankle. “How does it feel when I touch it?”

“Kind of like… this!” Elena whacks the officer over his sandy white skull.

“That’s the signal,” Ted whispers. “ _Go go go!_ ”

Jaime dashes towards a partly open metal door Ted trails behind, keeping watch.

“Hey!” the buff cop bellows. “What’s the meaning of– OOF!”

A tire iron to the ribs cuts the officer off, accompanied by gleeful laughter. Worry rises in Jaime’s chest when both men pin Jason to the ground.

It disappears as Elena shouts, “HANDS OFF MY GRANDSON, MOTHERFUCKERS!” and knocks both their skulls off with a baseball bat–like swing.

“Oh, so she can swear but I can’t,” Jason mutters.

Ted elbows Jaime, who tears his eyes away from the brawl and descends a dimly lit staircase, each step a precipitous, water-slick bedrock slab. Dust and mold crawl down Jaime’s throat and he covers his face with a handkerchief to keep from coughing.

He squints when a bright light shines in his face, and for a second he thinks that someone caught him. But his eyes adjust and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees it’s just Ted. The man hands Jaime a second flashlight from his utility belt, mouthing a “sorry”.

Sparsely occupied dungeon-like cells line both sides of the narrow corridor. A drunk woman sings to herself in one; an old man sleeps in another; two people play cards on top of an overturned bucket in a third. Mouse _alebrijes_ skitter about, foraging for crumbs. 

Putting the handkerchief away, Jaime whisper-shouts Bart’s name as he checks each cell, ignoring his heart pounding in his ears. 

“Jaime!”

He whirls around, eyes locking with familiar grassy irises. Jaime nearly drops his flashlight and crowbar as he rushes forward. Seeing the love of his life caged up stirs something animalistic inside Jaime, but he smiles nonetheless.

“I’m here, _cariño_ ,” he says. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

The corners of Bart’s eyes crinkle. “‘Course it is.”

Jaime hands Bart the flashlight and lifts the crowbar. “Get ready to run.”

Bart laughs. “Honey, I was born to run.”

In a swift, downward stab, the crowbar’s claw latches onto the rusted padlock. With a twist, the shackle bends like a pipe cleaner before snapping and clattering to the ground. The door swings open with a CLANG and Bart throws himself into Jaime’s arms.

Jaime takes Bart’s face in his hands. “Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you? What the heck happened back there?”

Tucking a strand of hair behind Jaime’s ear, Bart says, “I’m fine, babe. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Ted frantically taps Jaime’s shoulder. “I’m a sucker for heartfelt reunions as much as the next guy, but can it wait?”

Jaime’s head snaps to the shouts and flashlights growing closer, approaching them from the same way they entered. “Ted, is there another way out?”

“There’s a fork up ahead,” he says. “Take a left and the tunnel will lead to the church.”

“We should split up. There’ll be less of them,” Bart says.

Jaime grabs Bart’s hand. “I’m not letting you go.”

“That’s okay,” Ted says. “You two go one way, I’ll go the other.”

Bart’s squeezes Jaime’s hand and takes off without warning, dragging Jaime along like a rag doll. They veer left at the fork as the thunder of footsteps grows closer and Ted disappears. 

They come to a locked door, where Jaime uses the crowbar again on the heavy warded lock. He kicks the door in and they make their way through a cobweb-coated, artifact-filled sub-basement.

Bart pulls Jaime behind a sheet-covered piano. “Think we lost them?”

“THERE THEY ARE!”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jaime says.

Blood rushes through his ears as the two sprint up a rickety wooden staircase, past the main altar and Virgin Mary mosaics and classrooms and towering library shelves. The guards were so close that one brushes Jaime’s heel. He hurls the crowbar at them, taking off the head of one, but it hardly matters as more appear like a pack of hungry wolves.

“How many floors does this place have?” Bart asks.

“Does it matter?” Jaime replies as they pass an attic storage. “I swear, only you can get yourself arrested on the one night when you weren’t supposed to get arrested.”

Bart grins. “I like to keep things interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

They climb a ladder and Bart pushes open a trap door. A freezing wind bites Jaime’s skin and it takes him a second to realize that they’re in the lantern of a steeple almost as high as a skyscraper, overlooking the city. The streets are merely ribbons with ant-like crawling along them. The buildings are LEGO bricks pressed against each other and the people are almost microscopic. Bart ties the trap door shut with the thick cable connecting to a cracked bronze bell. 

The trap door rattles. The bell tolls. The wind picks up.

“It won’t hold for long,” says Bart.

“Well, how do you suppose we get out?” Jaime asks. “We’re trapped!”

Bart glances over the side.

Jaime waves a finger. “No.”

The door rattles. The bell tolls even louder. Bart climbs over the railing. 

An exasperated noise leaves Jaime’s lips. He shouts over the wind, “This is crazy!”

He searches Bart’s face for any indication that he’s joking, but finds none. 

“Sometimes crazy is our only option,” Bart says. “Do you trust me?”

Jaime swallows and climbs over, lacing their fingers together.

“Alright,” Bart says. “On one.”

“One?!?”

The door rattles one last time before exploding into a fountain of splinters. 

Bart pushes off. 

Jaime’s stomach leaps to his throat as they plummet towards the earth. The air rushes through his clothes as he wraps his arms around Bart, holding tightly as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Is it even possible to die in the Land of the Dead? 

He looks to Bart, expecting the other to be as terrified as he is. He’s taken by surprise when the younger man simply smiles and runs his fingers through Jaime’s hair. 

The wind is too loud and there’s not enough time for Jaime to say the million and one things he wants Bart to know. How his laugh is Jaime’s favorite sound. How every day is an adventure with him. How he’s kindhearted and funny and smart and courageous and impulsive. How he makes Jaime feel more than complete. 

The twinkle in Bart’s eye reminds Jaime that not all that is unsaid is unknown. All that matters is they have each other, because flying or falling, together means _together_. 

Jaime closes his eyes and prepares for impact, hoping if there’s any pain to be felt, it all goes to him.

_WHOOSH!_

The wind is knocked out of Jaime and suddenly he’s traveling horizontally, soaring over rooftops and canopied trees like winged _alebrijes_. 

Jason whoops at the top of his lungs. “Feels good to be a hero again!”

Next to them, Ted had Bart under his arm, swinging from one building to the next. “Hey Robin, think you can find us a good landing spot?”

“You know it, B.” Jason winks.

The wind slows down as they approach a residential area until it’s just a gentle breeze ruffling Jaime’s jacket. He spots his grandmother waiting at the end of the block. Ted and Jason gently lower Bart and Jaime onto a marble doorstep.

The air is squeezed out of Jaime’s lungs once more as Elena wraps her arms around him. “Are you okay, _mijito_?”

Jaime smiles and returns the hug. “I’m fine, Abuela.”

She buries her face in his shoulder. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” 

Elena pulls apart for a split second to drag Bart into the hug too. 

“Family hug!” Ted declares.

He wraps one arm around the three and bringing Jason in with the other. The latter doesn’t protest. Instead, the nuzzles into the space between Ted and Elena. Jaime breathes in the intermingling scents—his grandmother’s petunia perfume, Ted and Jason’s sweaty spandex, Bart’s everything. 

_“So this is what love smells like.”_

They jump apart when somebody clears their throat. 

Jaime sucks in a breath at the red hair and yellow costume. Guilt washes over him and he wonders if the Kid Flash blames him for everything. 

But Wally isn’t paying attention to Jaime. He’s glaring straight at Bart, arms crossed, eyebrows downturned, jaw clenched.

“What the hell are you doing in front of my house?”


	8. Chapter 8

Bart opens his mouth. “Wally, I can explain–”

“No need,” Wally says. “Let me guess, your boyfriend broke you out of jail, you led the cops on a wild goose chase, then these two,” he gestures to Ted and Jason, “got you out of whatever bind you ended up in.”

“Or… you can explain it,” Bart says. “I swear, I didn’t know you lived here. If I did, I wouldn’t have jumped through all those hurdles to find you.”

Wally hums apathetically. “Whatever. Good luck with your blessing. You have…” he checks his watch, “thirty-seven minutes.”

“Hang on,” Jaime interjects. “You’re not giving him his blessing?”

Wally shrugs. “Nope.”

“You’re all I have,” Bart pleads. “Just let me have the blessing and I’ll be our of your hair.”

“Tempting,” says Wally, “but no. Call it karma or whatever. You had this coming.”

Abandoning whatever dignity he has left, Bart throws himself at his cousin’s feet. “I’m sorry. Believe me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you can’t see Barry. I’m sorry you can’t be with Artemis. I’m sorry I took you away from your family and friends. If I could undo everything and save you I would. But please, you have to let me go home.”

Wally shakes him off. “For the last time: the answer is no.”

A single sob escapes Bart’s lips as he’s met by a door slamming in his face. The gaping feeling in his chest grows, though he’s not sure if it’s heartbreak or his organs fading out. The edge of the doorstep digs into his knee but he doesn’t pick himself up. He vaguely registers Jaime’s arms around him but doesn’t move; doesn’t lean in. He’s a statue, bolted to the spot.

Hope sinks into the abyss as horror surfaces in the form of a barely audible whisper. 

“I’m gonna die.”

“ _Cariño._ ”

“I’m moded,” Bart says. “Wally won’t give me his blessing and there’s no time to find someone else.”

“No.” Jaime’s voice hardens as he grabs Bart’s face, determination swirling in his deep brown eyes. “We came too far to give up now. There has to be a way to change his mind.”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“Then I’ll do the talking.”

Bart squeezes Jaime’s hand. “What if he doesn’t listen?”

Jaime lifts their hands and presses a kiss to Bart’s knuckles. “It’s worth a try.”

Before Bart could say anything else, Jaime marches to the door and knocks—almost bangs—three times. Bart ducks behind a bush, underneath a windowsill full of potted marigolds. Light floods the street as the door swings open.

“You?” Wally asks incredulously. “What do you want?”

“Let me in,” says Jaime. “I wanna talk like adults.”

Wally leans against the wooden doorframe. “And what if I don’t?”

Jaime glances over his shoulder. “Khaji Da, what’s the maximum power capacity of our plasma cannon?”

Bart scoffs quietly. No way Wally would fall that.

Wally stiffens and motions Jaime inside.

“He’s as good as you,” Jason whispers.

“Holy–” Bart jumps. “Jeez, warn a guy next time, would you?”

Peering through the window, Bart watches Jaime and Wally walk to a living room filled from floor to ceiling with souvenirs and strange tchotchkes, making the house appear smaller than it already is. A frayed couch is pushed against the wall, mirrors and medals and college pennants surrounding it like a dollar store–quality art museum. Sitting on a secondhand coffee table are a TV remote, several science magazines, a Game Boy, and a framed pencil sketch of Wally’s girlfriend. Not to mention the empty cups and takeout containers littering the olive green carpet, all the way to a tiny kitchenette and narrow staircase. 

Wally tosses an empty pizza box aside like a frisbee and gestures for Jaime to join him on the sofa. Their lips move, but it’s too fast and far away for Bart to catch anything.

“What’re they sayin’?” Jason asks.

Bart grunts. “I can’t tell.”

The boy snaps his fingers. “Gimme three minutes.”

No sooner after Jason left did Ted show up to take his spot, asking eagerly, “So?”

“Still can’t hear them,” Bart mutters. 

Elena joins them and asks the same question.

“Will all due respect,” he says, “Why are you guys here?”

“Because that’s my grandson in there,” Elena replies. 

At the same time, Ted answers, “Because I like gossip.”

“I’m back!” Jason calls, running over to the group. 

He hands Bart a short iron tube that looks suspiciously like a car exhaust pipe. Bart scoops out the ashy black grime and wipes his finger on the corner of Jason’s cape. He presses the pipe to the wall and suddenly the words become crystal clear.

 _“I don’t see why I have to give him my blessing,”_ says Wally. 

_“He’s your family!”_ Jaime exclaims. _“You can’t leave him hanging like this!”_

_“So? People die all the time. He’ll just be joining the club.”_

The others crowd Bart from all sides. He holds his ear closer to the amplifier, ignoring Elena’s hair tickling his chin and Jason’s knee digging into his spine and Ted’s heavy breathing so close to his ear. Their bodies are surprisingly warm for dead people. Bart spares a glance at his faded fingertips and prays that Jaime can get through to the other speedster.

 _“I think I know what this is about,”_ Jaime states in a hushed tone. _“You’re lonely.”_

Silence befalls them. Wally shifts in his seat.

Jaime continues, _“You’re not angry at Bart. You’re not even angry about being dead. You’re bitter because you have nobody here. I don’t blame you. I would be too.”_

Wally lets out a single hollow laugh. _“Everything in this place revolves around family. And it’s hard when all my relatives are either alive or nowhere to be found.”_

 _“You’re not alone,”_ Jaime says. _“I can help, but only if you promise to give Bart his blessing.”_

Ted nudges Bart. “He loves you a lot, you know.”

“ _Sí_ ,” says Elena. “I can tell by the way he looks at you.”

“Like he’d screw you, marry you, and die for you at the same time,” Jason adds.

Bart motions for them to be quiet, but it doesn’t stop a smile breaking out on his face.

 _“Por favor,”_ Jaime says. _“Let me help.”_

Wally sighs. _“You’re right.”_

Bart cheers, pumping his fists in the air. His arm knocks into a pot. Before anyone could do anything, the planters topple over like dominoes, spraying dirt and green matter and tiny spirit insects all over the group. 

The noise is deafening as they shatter against the cobblestone, though not as deafening as Elena screaming and Ted crying, “I swallowed a bug!”

Brushing the shriveled leaves off of his not-pants, Jason says, “You’re Blue Beetle. Aren’t bugs supposed to be, like, your thing?”

“Scarabs are my thing,” Ted corrects. “There is a big difference.”

“Guys,” Bart says. “Keep it down or they’ll–”

The door swings open. 

“Or they’ll what?” Wally asks.

“Heeeey, Wall-man!” Bart exclaims. He points to the mess. “So, uh, that wasn’t me.”

“ _Díos mio_ ,” Jaime mutters. “I leave you alone for ten minutes.”

Bart throws his hands up. “In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”

“What about Ted?” Jaime asks. “He’s basically the dad of the group.”

“I’m Jason’s dad, not Bart’s,” Ted counters. 

“Yeah!” Jason exclaims, grabbing a fistful of Ted’s costume like a possessive kindergartener. “Get your own billionaire!”

Wally squints and points to Jason. “You! You little swindler!”

The boy laughs nervously. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

_“¡OYE!”_

All heads snap to Elena, who’s holding a slipper above her head.

“In case you are forgetting,” she says, “We came here for a blessing.”

“Right.” Wally bends down and plucks a petal from the ceramic-and-soil mess. “But first, Jaime promised me something.”

Jaime nods. “I did. And here they are.”

He gestures to Ted, Jason, and Elena—the latter looking like she’s already prepared to adopt another grandchild and stuff him with baked goodies. Wally cracks a smile before turning back to Bart. 

“I’m sorry for abandoning you,” he says. “I blamed the wrong person and I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Bart replies. “You’re family. I could never hold anything against you.”

“In that case,” Wally says, “Bart, I give you my bless–”

“Wait!” Jason shouts, fumbling through his utility belt.

Bart sighs. “Is this another bet? ‘Cause, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a time crunch.”

Wally furrows his eyebrows. “He offered you a bet? That little twerp made me take the wheels off a luchador’s truck!”

“No,” Jason answers. “S’not a bet.”

He sends a forlorn glance towards the horizon, where the first rays of light peek over the golden bridges connecting the two worlds. There’s uncertainty in his step, and for the first time, Bart sees the scared, mistreated, abandoned child that he actually is.

“I’ve never been to the other side,” Jason says. “The Bats don’t do this kinda stuff and the world thinks Robin is still alive.” 

He slowly unfolds an old, slightly faded, but still recognizable picture. “Could you…”

Bart smiles. “‘Course I can.” 

He crouches down and takes the photo, carefully sliding it into his shirt pocket. Pulling the boy close, he feels Jason bury his face in his shoulder. Someone sniffles, but Bart isn’t sure who. When they separate, he ruffles Jason’s curly mane before turning back to Wally.

“Alright,” Bart says. “I’m ready.”

Wally takes a deep breath. “Bart, I give you my blessing.”

He holds out the petal.

It doesn’t glow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced is the lullaby/arullo version of "Remember Me" from Coco using both English and Spanish lyrics.

_“No.”_ Jaime’s eyes widen and his stomach flips like a sailboat caught in an ocean storm. _“No no no. This can’t be happening.”_

Wally’s furrows his eyebrows. “Lemme try again.” 

He clears his throat. “Bart, I give you my blessing.”

A strangled noise leaves Jaime’s throat when nothing happens again. Elena gasps softly and pulls Jason close; he grabs a fistful of her shawl.

“Why isn’t it working?” Bart asks. “We’re family, right?”

“Yeah,” Wally says. “You made a pretty big deal of that when you first came to this timeline.”

“Maybe you’re not close enough.” Ted wrings his hands. “Or maybe it’s something wrong with the magic. It could be anything. We don’t have time to go over the factors.”

Jaime whimpers. “There has to be another way. Bart, do you have any other relatives?”

“It took us the whole night to find Wally,” Bart says. “Who are we gonna find in twenty minutes?”

Wally hangs his head and whispers, “I’m sorry, guys.”

A mournful hush settles over as the rest back away. 

Jaime cups Bart’s face in one hand. His heart clenches when Bart leans in, placing his hand on top of Jaime’s. Every second that passes, the sky grows brighter and a freckle disappears from the speedster’s face. 

Unsaid words hang in the air like a prophecy that neither wishes to acknowledge—as though if they do, it’ll turn into harsh reality. Jaime opens his mouth, only to shut it again, like a fish drowning in air.

It’s Bart who breaks the silence. “Sing me one last song?”

Jaime inhales shakily and stroke’s Bart’s cheek, a watery smile appearing on his face. “Anything for you, _mi amor_.”

He leans closer, as though whispering a secret. Bart drapes his arms over Jaime’s shoulder and Jaime’s hands move to the younger one’s waist. His lips barely part. 

“ _Recuérdame. Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor._ ”

Bart’s eyes glimmer in recognition.

“ _Recuérdame. No llores por favor._ ” 

“ _Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás._ ” Jaime cards his fingers through the soft auburn waterfall. “ _A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar._ ”

He sucks in another breath.

“ _Recuérdame. Aunque tenga que emigrar._ ” 

And he blinks away the mist. 

“ _Recuérdame. Si mi guitarra oyes llorar._ ”

Bart opens his mouth. “Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be. Until you’re in my arms again…”

“Remember…” Their voices and fingers lace together. “…me.”

Jaime hiccups and presses their foreheads together. Raindrops and morning light glitter in Bart’s eyes like flakes of silver and gold. All Jaime can think about is how much he doesn’t want to leave. How he can already feel his insides ripping in half at the prospect.

A quiet cough draws their attention. Elena steps forward with pink-rimmed eyes, squeezing a petal between her thumb and forefinger. 

Bart nudges him forward.

“No,” Jaime rasps, tears sliding down his face. “I don’t wanna leave. I don’t wanna say goodbye.”

“There’s no such thing as goodbye when you love someone.” Bart takes Jaime’s hands. “Go. Keep our memory alive.”

Wiping his eyes, Jaime turns to his grandmother. She mouths a _“lo siento”_.

Jaime shoves his hands in his pockets. “I guess this is it–”

He freezes.

“Jaime?”

He whirls around, ring in hand. 

“Marry me.”

“What?” Bart asks incredulously.

Jaime drops to one knee. “Marry me. We’ll be family. We can take _mi abuela_ ’s blessing and go home together.”

Bart’s hand flies to his mouth.

Jaime continues. “I wanted to wait for the right moment but I realized that no moment is better than the present. So what do you say? Will you make me the happiest man ever and be my husband?”

“Yes!” Bart shouts. “Yes yes yes! I can’t believe this is happening!”

Jaime stands up in time to catch Bart in his arms. Warmth blossoms in his chest as he slides the ring onto Bart’s finger. Their lips press together briefly before Bart abruptly pulls away.

“Jason’s a certified priest,” he says. “He can make it official.”

They turn to the boy and Bart asks, “Jason, will you marry us?”

“I’m flattered,” Jason says, “but you guys are kinda old and I’m not really into–”

“Not what we meant!” they exclaim.

“I’m just messin’ with ya,” Jason says, digging through his belt. “Now lemme see… Batarang, grappling hook, loaded dice, tire iron, backup tire iron… ah, pocket Bible!” 

Jaime runs his thumb over Bart’s knuckles. 

Jason steps between them, skimming through a card deck–sized book. “Blah blah blah holy matrimony… blah blah blah vows…” 

The realization hits Jaime—a dizzying sensation, like walking into a perfume shop.

_“I’m marrying the man of my dreams.”_

“Here we go!” Jason clears his throat and looks at Bart. “Do you, Bart Allen, take Jaime Reyes as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish ‘till death do you part? Which’ll be pretty soon if you don’t say yes.”

Bart giggles, stars twinkling in his eyes. “I do.”

Jason turns to Jaime. “And do you, Jaime Reyes, take Bart Allen as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish ‘till death do you part?”

“I do,” Jaime breathes.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husbands. You may, like, kiss or whatever.”

Their lips collide and Jaime drinks in every drop, as though he’s a drowning man and Bart is the life preserver. One hand remains entwined with Bart’s like a knot; the other finds its way to Bart’s jawline. Jaime can’t help but smile into the kiss. He feels Bart—his _husband_ —do the same.

A sob echoes through the air. Ted draws a handkerchief from his belt and blows his nose.

“They grow up so fast,” he hiccups. “I’m so proud.”

Jaime’s heart swells and his cheeks begin to hurt from smiling but he doesn’t care.

Wally playfully punches both of them in the arm. “Great, now I owe Artemis fifty bucks. How many pesos is that?” He laughs. “But for real, congrats.”

Bart’s expression softens as he turns to Jason, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“I hope you know that Batman was only trying to honor your memory,” Bart says.

Jason shrugs. “It’s okay. He deserves to rebuild. In fact…” He glances at Ted, Elena, and Wally, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “I think it’s time I do the same.” 

Silence falls when Elena comes forward, as though she’s running the whole show. The ground crunches under every footstep. 

“Abuela…”

“I still do not fully understand this,” she begins.

Jaime gulps. 

“And we may not see eye to eye,” she continues.

His heart hammers in his chest.

“But I will support whatever makes you happy,” she finishes, “because that is what _familia_ does.”

Like a lake at the beginning of spring, a wave of hope springs through the thinning ice.

She looks Bart in the eye. “Take care of my grandson. That is an order.”

Bart chuckles and squeezes Jaime’s hand. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

“And you.” She turns to Jaime. “I have never seen anybody more in love than the two of you. You must promise to never, ever let that go.”

“ _Lo prometo_ ,” Jaime replies, nodding earnestly. “Always.”

“Meeting you was fate,” she says. “Following you was choice. Seeing how much you’ve grown has been an honor. But, like everything, our time together must come to an end. You have a whole life ahead and I know from the bottom of my heart that it will be a happy one.” 

Elena takes a deep breath and glances at them both. “Bart and Jaime, I give you both my blessing.”

She touches the petal to their hands.

A marigold glow engulfs them.


	10. Un Año Después

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics are reprised from "Proud Corazón". I also referenced another song slightly: "La Llorona", also from Coco.

**_“Say that I’m crazy or call me a fool.”_ **

Jason swallows thickly as the gate draws closer. Worries fill his head like the briny ocean into a leaky dinghy, threatening to drown him at any moment. He doesn’t notice himself twisting the corner of his cape until a yellow-gloved hand catches his.

“Hey, kid.” Wally crouches down to meet his eyes. “Something wrong?”

The line inches forward like a centipede. Jason blinks behind the latex domino mask as Elena steps up to the counter, basket in hand.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles.

Wally chuckles. “I was best friends with Dick Grayson. Trust me when I say that I know stupid. And if something’s bugging you, it’s not stupid.”

Ted goes next, walking alongside a polished blue-and-gold bike.

“What if my picture isn't there?” he whispers. “What if they forgot me?”

Carding his fingers through Jason’s hair, Wally replies, “They won’t forget you. Trust me.”

Jason nods mutely, uncertainty lingering his ribcage like a lone caterpillar. The customs officer calls for the next person and Wally, tugging his squeaky red wagon, steps forward.

_Ding._

Only a column of air stands between Jason and the counter. The scanner points forward, waiting for something to analyze. From the other side, Ted and Wally throw two pairs of thumbs up while Elena smiles encouragingly. Adjusting the strap of his brand new backpack, Jason takes a shaky breath. His knees wobble as he steps in front of the scanner.

“Name?” the officer asks.

“Jason Todd.”

The machine hums as the single green laser line travels up and down his body.

_Ding._

The officer smiles. “It looks like you’re on the Allen-Reyes _ofrenda_. Have a nice trip!”

Jason releases a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. Butterflies spread their wings in his chest as he runs to the others. 

Ted catches the boy in his gangly arms and spins him around. “Congratulations, Jaylad!”

“They remembered me,” Jason breathes, eyes wide in disbelief. “They remembered me!”

Ted sets Jason down for a total of half a second before Elena scoops him up.

“ _Mi bebé_ finally has his own _ofrenda_!” she exclaims.

Wally claps Jason on the shoulder. “See? What did I tell you?”

Like shooting stars, marigold bridges arc across the chasms of night. A gentle breeze stirs the carpet of flowers, releasing a sweet perfume into the air. Overhead, like a light show on a black ceiling, vibrant _alebrijes_ soar and swoop, barking and crowing and meowing. The petals are clouds of silk confetti, raining down as Jason grabs fistfuls and tosses them above his head.

“Hey Wall-Man, race ya to the other side!”

Wally smirks and snaps on his goggles. “You’re on!”

Elena reminds Wally, “Look after your _hermanito_.”

The speedster laughs and replies, “I will if I can catch up to him.”

But Jason is already halfway across the bridge, hooting and hollering at the top of his lungs, cape billowing behind him like a golden victory flag. 

“This is the best day of my death!”

**_“But last night it seemed that I dreamed about you.”_ **

“We’re almost there,” says Ted. “They changed their address so it’s a little farther.”

“How do you know?” Elena asks. “Last I remembered, they live in an apartment in the city.”

Ted hums. “I have my sources.”

The bike chain rattles. The wagon wheels squeak. As Wally tugs Jason along, he says, “You gotta stop calling your boyfriend ‘sources’.”

“Wait,” Jason says. “Mikey’s your boyfriend? Does that mean I gotta deal with more dad jokes?”

Bronze leaves swirl, not unlike the petals back home. Some hook onto the skinny twigs of barebone bushes, as though they’re checking out a new house. Others flow like rafts on curbside rivers, piling into dams at storm drains. They flutter past hand-carved jack-o’-lanterns and yards littered with plastic tombstones. A terrier runs through Ted’s bike, chased by a trio of little girls. Parked along the driveway are the nicest cars Jason has ever gazed upon, and it takes all of his willpower not to hop out of the wagon and grab those shiny tires.

“Hey, Robin.” Wally snaps a finger in front of Jason’s face. “Eyes to yourself.”

Jason blows a raspberry. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Listen to your elders, _mijito_.”

“ _Sí_ , Mamá Elena.”

Ted slows down along a rainbow picket fence and pulls onto the bone-white driveway of what almost looked like a cottage. Next to the road is a paint-splattered silver mailbox standing among a bed of marigolds. Jason squints. His brows furrow when he realizes they’re not splatters, but handprints. Two large ones—a rich scarlet and deep blue—cover opposite sides, overlapping at the fingertips. Smaller ones surround them—teal, purple, green, yellow. 

“Is this the right place?” Jason asks.

“Hm…” Ted pulls out a crudely doodled map. “It should be.”

Jason points to the mailbox. “You sure?”

Wally steps over and opens the mailbox. Phantom copies separate from the physical letters as he rifles through them. He clicks his tongue.

“Looks like it.” Wally flips over an IRS envelope. “I know a lot can change in one year, but damn.”

Jason waits expectantly for a few seconds. He throws his hands up. “Seriously? Am I the only one who can’t swear?”

“Not until you turn eighteen,” Ted says.

“What is this, a PG-13 story where only one f-bomb is allowed?” 

The Robin glances around. He has to admit, Bart and Jaime did a nice job. No cars are parked—either they don’t use one or they’re not home. A pink bike, sticker-plastered skateboard, transgender flag-themed rollerblades, and mustard-yellow plastic tricycle form a small pile on the porch next to a swinging bench. A straw mat reading “Bienvenidos” lays in front of the door. Elena begins to tear up. 

Jason puts a hand on her elbow. “ _¿Qué pasa?_ Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing at all.” She wipes her eyes on her shawl. “I have great-grandbabies!”

He wraps his arms around her. “This is our chance to meet them.”

Ted races to the door. He looks back at them expectantly. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

**_“When I opened my mouth what came out was a song.”_ **

The exterior should’ve been a good indicator, but Jason is still taken aback by what greets him. 

As soon as he steps through the door, the first thing he notices are things scattered everywhere—not that it’s a problem for him, as he can just phase through, but his old butler would have a conniption. The closest to that is Elena, who tries to pick the objects up to no avail. Shoes—white boots, ballet flats, light-up sneakers, and circular baby shoes—form a trail down the hall. Dump trucks and Barbie dolls litter the tile. A twirling ribbon hangs from the coat rack, next to a baseball cap and infant-sized raincoat. Backpacks pile in a corner.

The hall opens up to a living room that reminds Jason of a woodland cottage. Patterned throw blankets are draped over a long couch. That, along with two armchairs, form a half-circle around a hearth. Like the floor, random items cover the coffee table; chargers, loose pennies, magazines, remotes, another doll. 

Framed photos run along the mantlepiece. Bart and Jaime in front of a courthouse. Then in a tropical place, though Jason couldn’t tell if they were on a mission or their honeymoon. The two with a middle schooler at a father-daughter dance. Them again with an older teen at Pride, a blue-and-gold blur barely visible in the background. Bart and a boy at a campsite wearing matching scout uniforms with a green retriever across their laps. Jaime, an older couple, a younger woman, and a toddler at a barbecue, the baby’s face smothered in frosting. The last photo is Jason’s favorite: the family—all six of them—squishing onto Barry Allen’s lap. 

For a full house, it’s surprisingly quiet. Jason opens his mouth to say something, but Wally beats him to the punch.

“Maybe they’re not home,” the speedster suggests.

A quiet strumming catches Jason’s attention. He follows it to the kitchen. Sapphire eyes take in the patterned tiles to a stove, marble counters, and cabinets leading to a pantry. The fridge is covered in alphabet magnets, report cards, and handmade Father’s Day cards. Remnants of Mexican cooking mingle with seasonal scented candles. A window shines amber light onto the kitchen table. At it sits a preteen girl with a guitar and handwritten sheet music. Large John Lennon glasses sit on her face and a violet _escaramuza_ dress hangs a few inches past her knees. Her dreadlocks are pulled back by a flag bandana. Jason recognizes her instantly from the dance photo.

She checks the page before putting her fingers back on the frets. “ _Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona. No dejaré de quererte_ …”

Elena’s hand flies to her mouth. “She’s beautiful.”

Ted gently nudges the woman. “You can get closer.”

She tentatively steps forward, as though afraid of disturbing the girl. Elena’s thumb traces over delicate high cheekbone. Twinkling brown eyes gaze into almost identical ones.

“ _Hola, cariña,_ ” she whispers. “ _Soy tu bisabuela._ What’s your name?”

Wally checks over his shoulder. “There’s more than one. I wonder where the others are.”

**_“And you knew every word and we all sang along.”_ **

No sooner did Wally say that, a boy no older than eight marches proudly into the room. His dark hair sticks up in haphazard spikes. Between his aquamarine eyes, a Power Rangers band-aid covers the bridge of his nose as well as a few of the pale freckles scattered across his cheeks. Dried mud splatters his legs. More cakes his toenails. A towel cape hangs from his shoulders. The smell of sweat and lawn clippings hits Jason like a speeding Maserati. Yet somehow, he’s drawn to the child.

“Lena, you’ll never guess what I got,” the boy says.

“You’re getting dirt everywhere, that’s what,” the girl—Lena—replies exasperatedly. “Papá’s not gonna be happy.”

“Okay, you’re technically right, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Wally points to the kid’s bottom half, which is just a pair of underwear, and says to Jason, “He gets that from you.”

“Then what is it, Peter?” Lena asks. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing something important here.”

Peter begins, “You know that kid in my class who called me a ‘poo-poo head’ and stole my pudding last week?”

The Robin excitedly steps over. “What did you do?”

“ _¿Qué hiciste?_ ” Lena asks.

“I took something.”

“Nice!” Jason claps the boy’s back.

Lena groans. “Please don’t tell me you stole Terry McGinnis’s race car again.”

“No.” Peter opens his palm with a grin that Jason can only describe as shit-eating. “Just the wheels.”

Jason throws his head back as the loudest laugh rises from his ribcage. “I love this kid!”

“You have to give it back,” Lena insists. “Dad says if any of us get in trouble again this month he’s gonna make us clean the attic. And those are always haunted.”

“Wait!” Peter exclaims. “ _Tío_ Jason liked cars, right?”

Jason’s chest flutters. “I’m an uncle,” he whispers. Wally pats him on the back.

“ _Tío_ Jason liked stealing cars,” Lena corrects. 

“Even better! I stole these, so if I put them on his _ofrenda_ that’d be, like, the ultimate offering!”

Before his sister can say anything else, Peter darts off. The other boys follow; Elena lingers behind as the girl starts singing again. 

They follow Peter to one of those “not sure what to do with” rooms. Marigold petals trail from beneath the door crack. Though the spirits could easily phase through, they wait for Peter to open it. 

Standing against the white wall, a step-like pyramid of photos reaches to the ceiling. Jason doesn’t recognize most of them—old people in black-and-white. Paper decorations hang from the satin tablecloth. Bread, drink pitchers, and candles line every level of the altar. Mementos—jewelry and watches—are stacked beside the person whom they belong to. Next to Elena’s photo is a glass of wine. Shared between her and Wally is an entire cake split down the middle.

Wally reaches for his half. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Peter kneels down and sets the plastic tires next to a beer bottle in front of Jason’s picture. “ _Hola, Tío_ Jason _. ¿Cómo está?_ ”

Jason crouches down to the boy’s level. “ _Estoy bien._ I don’t know how to do this whole ‘uncle’ thing. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. _¿Y tú?_ ”

“These are for you,” Peter says. “They’re not real, but I hope you like them.”

Jason takes the items. He holds the wheels close to his chest, trying to suck back the incoming waterworks. To his disappointment, Ted plucks the beer out of his hands.

“Nice try, young man. Wait ‘till you’re twenty-one.”

Jason ignores him and cradles the tires in his palm like precious diamonds. “I’ll treasure these for the rest of my days.”

**_“To a melody played on the strings of our souls.”_ **

Heads turn as an androgynous-looking teenager walks into the room with a shoebox of different offerings. “What did you do this time, Peter?”

“Nothing!” Peter puts his hands up in surrender. “I was just leaving some offerings.”

The teen glances at the wheels. “You stole those.”

“Maybe…” Peter says. “Promise you won’t tell? Pleeeease, Teddy? You’ll be my favorite brother.”

Ted’s eyes widen.

Rolling his eyes, the teen sets the box down. “Help me with these then.”

The brothers work in a synchronous silence, arranging the offerings on the alter—a baseball card here, a wind-up clock there. 

Teddy places a cherry Ring Pop next to Wally’s photo. “Dad won’t let me touch the Flash ring.”

Wally snatches the candy. “Are you kidding? This is way better!”

Elena receives a hand-knitted scarf; Jason, a replica Batarang. Peter mentions something about the bathroom and slips out. Teddy’s fingers ghost over the last item at the bottom of the box.

“I hope you like it. I did some digging; turns out we both like Stevie Wonder.” 

On Ted’s _ofrenda_ , Teddy places an MP3 with earbuds wrapped around like ribbons on a birthday present before running his fingers through his cropped, sand-colored locks. “I also hope you don’t mind that I borrowed your name. My old one…” He hesitates, wringing his fingers. “It didn’t fit.”

Teddy switches to sitting cross-legged. The hem of his overalls brushes the marigold carpet like ripples on still water. Ted kneels beside him. Unsure what to do, Jason lingers to the side next to Wally, who’s contently sucking on his Ring Pop.

“I heard a lot of stories about you,” Teddy continues. “Don’t tell my dads I said this, but I think you’re the greatest superhero. I’d rather be like you than have a scarab or super speed.”

Ted chuckles and mimes zipping his lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

The teen draws a knee to his chest. “This past year’s been… hard. Moving families, starting a new school. Plus figuring out who I am and what I wanna do with my life. I’m not too old to still wanna be a pro athlete, am I?”

“Of course not,” Ted answers. “Did your dad ever tell you about the time Robin trained him for a race?”

Wally whispers to Jason, “Swindler.”

Jason whispers back, “Gullible.”

“Whatever I end up doing, I hope I make you proud. You know, ‘cause of the name thing,” Teddy says.

Ted’s expression softens. “You’ve already done that.”

The boy pulls himself up. “Anyway, I should go help Aunt Artemis with the baby.” He presses two fingers to his lips, then to Ted’s photo. “See you around, _Papá_ Ted.”

“That’s me,” Ted breathes, turning to the others. “I’m _Papá_ Ted.”

“Please don’t start crying again,” Jason says. “I don’t think I brought enough tissues.”

“I can’t help it.” Ted bursts into tears. “He named himself after me! I have the best kid ever.”

“Mm, pretty sure that title goes to Peter,” Jason remarks. “Right, Wally?” He glances around. “…Wally?”

**_“And a rhythm that rattled us down to the bone.”_ **

Jason curiously follows Wally’s voice down the halls and up the stairs. Light from one room floods the hall, shining on even more family photos—beach days, carnivals, Cinco De Mayo. The Robin peers around the doorway into a pastel-painted nursery. A mural of cartoon bunnies under an apple tree takes up a whole wall. Pressed against it is a crib with tousled blankets. Alphabet blocks, stuffed animals, and pop-up books litter the grass-like rug. In the corner, a TV playing Sesame Street acts as a white noise maker. And that baby smell is unmistakable. Sitting in the middle of it all is a jubilant redheaded toddler, a blonde woman holding a bowl of steamed broccoli, and Wally staring lovingly at both.

“Are you _sure_ you want some?” the woman asks. “This is big kid food. I don’t think you can handle it. You’re just a baby. You’re supposed to eat baby food, like milk and Chicken Whizees.”

“M’not baby!” the toddler whines. “M’big kid!”

“Your dads left me in charge while they do some last-minute shopping,” she says, “and it’s my job to keep you safe. That means protecting you from things that you aren’t ready for.”

“Pweeeeease,” the child begs.

She makes a show of checking over her shoulders before placing the bowl on the ground. “Fine. Just one. But don’t tell your fathers."

“Yay!” The toddler reaches into the bowl and grabs three florets in his clenched fists.

The woman gasps in mock offense. “Westley Allen-Reyes, I said to take only one!”

The boy shoves the pieces into his mouth.

Wally mumbles, “You were always the smarter one, Artemis.”

Artemis wipes the green off of Westley’s face. “You’re a lot like your Uncle Wally, you know. You should’ve seen our grocery list.”

The speedster scoots closer. He doesn’t say anything at first; he simply watches. The child nabs another piece from broccoli as his aunt pretends he’s committing some sort of war crime before running from her like a pursued felon on his stubby legs. There’s a shimmer in Wally’s blue-green eyes—a glint of longing swimming in awe. He reaches for the child, only for his hand to pass through. Jason shrinks farther out of sight.

“I know you’re there, Jason,” Wally says. “You don’t have to hide. He’s your nephew too.”

Jason leans against the door frame. “Are we allowed to have favorites?”

“Why not? We’re not their parents.” Wally glances at the baby. “He’s mine though, so back off.”

The Robin snorts. “Him? All he does is eat and run.”

“Exactly!”

Jason hears the garage open and gets up. “Bart and Jaime must be back.”

“You go ahead.” Wally looks at Artemis and Westley, who are playing together happily. “Just… let me pretend a little longer.”

Jason nods and makes his way downstairs.

**_“Our love for each other will live on forever…”_ **

“Kids! We’re home! And we brought goodies!” Bart calls from the living room as his husband sets the grocery bags on the kitchen table.

Peter dashes in first, nearly knocking Bart over as he slams into the man’s legs.

“Dad! I missed you!” Peter exclaims. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“I love you too.” Bart beams, ruffling his hair. “Now what did you do?”

“What makes you think that?” the boy asks. “Me, an innocent child–”

“He stole Terry McGinnis’s race car wheels again,” Lena bluntly cuts in.

Bart playfully rolls his eyes. “You take after your Uncle Jason.”

“Hell yeah he does,” Jason brags.

Jaime walks in, tossing his wallet and keys onto the cluttered coffee table. “What did Peter do– _OOMPH!_ ”

Not even Khaji Da could warn Jaime before Teddy pounces from behind, wrapping himself around like a second scarab.

“Did you get my Fruity Pebbles?” Teddy asks, sky blue eyes twinkling.

“‘Course we did, _mijito_.” The last word makes the teen smile even more.

“And root beer?” Peter asks.

“ _Sí_ , but no soda before bed.”

“What about my organic dragonfruit vinaigrette?” Lena asks.

Bart pulls her under his arm and plants a kiss on her forehead. “That too, Princess.”

Elena swings around and pulls Jason and Ted close to her.

“Where is Wally?” she asks the same time Jaime asks, “Where are Westley and Artemis?”

As if on cue, the three come bounding down the stairs—Wally two at a time while Artemis is more careful with the child in her arms. She hands Westley to Bart, who immediately takes to pulling the speedster’s ponytail. 

“Sorry, had to change his diaper,” Artemis says. 

Wally nods numbly. “It’s true. I’ve never seen anything more horrible.”

“ _Gracias_ , Artemis. We really appreciate it,” Jaime replies.

“It’s no problem. Got nothing better to do anyway.” She shrugs halfheartedly, grabbing her coat. “I better get going.”

Bart bites his lip and hands Westley to Jaime. 

“Wait!” He jogs to the front door as Artemis’s fingers curl around the knob. “Stay.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Please,” Bart implores, catching her hand. “Day of the Dead is supposed to be about family, and you’re family too.”

Artemis glances at the ground, deliberating. A few seconds pass before she hangs her jacket back up. 

They gather in the kitchen, where Jaime had everything prepared and just has to warm it up. In a blur, Bart sets half the table, leaving the other half for the kids. Teddy, Lena, and Peter create an assembly line of placemats and utensils while Westley cheers them on from his highchair. Ted busies himself making phantom copies of the chairs and silverware. Jason briefly wonders if that technically counts as stealing. As Jaime brings the food out, Jason and Wally help make tracers of it.

“You’ve grown so much, _mijo_ ,” Elena breathes. Though her hand is on her grandson’s face, her eyes are everywhere but. 

Jaime, of course, doesn’t see any of that. He turns and plants a quick kiss on Bart’s lips as he slips on a pair of oven mitts. Peter pretends to gag. Jason laughs.

“You guys are gross,” Peter says.

“Well excuse me for wanting to kiss my husband on our wedding anniversary,” Jaime playfully chides, waving his wooden spatula. “It’s extra special ‘cause we got married in the Land of the Dead, you know.”

“I know. It’s extra gross.”

Teddy rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you made that up as a threat. Like, _‘Do your homework or you’ll get married in the Land of the Dead’_ or something.”

Lena places a salad bowl on the table. “I think it’s cute. Puts the whole _‘death do you part’_ thing into perspective.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Still gross.”

“Says the boy who eats his boogers,” Lena retorts. 

Bart laughs. “Believe it or not, kids, it’s true.”

“I choose not,” says Teddy. 

“What do you mean you don’t believe him?” Jason asks. “He’s got, like, four witnesses right here. I was the freakin’ priest!”

As they settle down around the table, Bart raises a loaf of bread. “I’d like to make a toast.”

The kids groan. Jaime motions for him to continue.

“To family,” Bart says. “The living.” 

He gestures to Artemis and the kids.

“The dead.”

Bart gestures to the _ofrenda_ room. 

“And most importantly, the chosen.”

His eyes lock with Jaime’s. 

“Because it’s the people who you choose, not the ones you were born with, that become the best parts of you.”

Jason smiles and raises his glass. “Amen to that.”

**_“…In every beat of my proud corazón.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. It's done. I feel like a parent whose child just graduated.


End file.
